Threshold
by mechtild
Summary: As Frodo grows up, so does his love for an adult friend.
1. Just Two Friends

_Note:_ This story is written in the canon universe but the central relationship portrayed in it is not a conventional one. The original characters have been created from their names in the family trees. These chapters comprise the opening section of a larger work in progress.

_x x x_

_Summer of 1380_** - **_Buckland_

Upon the grounds of Brandy Hall, on the banks of the river Brandywine, a large summer get-together hosted by the Brandybucks was winding down for the day, after a luncheon followed by games for the children. The afternoon had become a very warm one. The nursemaids and mothers were suckling their infants or putting the littlest down for their naps, wherever they might find a shady spot. Some found places under the trees. Others withdrew to the many porches and nooks in the ramble of interconnected holes that formed the Hall.

The older children who weren't still looking for play were feeling the lethargy of heat and still-full bellies. Frodo Baggins was one of these. Flinging themselves down here and there, they drowsed against free bosoms and nestled into the crooks of arms, making the mothers uncomfortable with their hot little bodies, damp from racing round and round the tables still set up under the trees.

The afternoon was rich, contented, drowsy. The sun was lower now, the scattered trees casting long shadows up the banked lawns that rose from the river's edge to the feet of the Hall. The light from the westering sun shimmered on the river's surface through the leaves. Rosamunda Bolger watched the light, sitting there propped against the bole of a great tree. She heard the drone of insects, the murmur of faltering conversation and the trailing off of stories, the sounds of other sleepers breathing and the soft suckling and fretting noises of babies being settled.

While his mother and father had gone off boating, Frodo had stayed upon the grounds to play with the other children. His parents had sought the cool and quiet that could be had beneath the willows that overhung the nearer shore. Such a clamour and a clatter did a Brandybuck luncheon make! Frodo would be fine, one lad among so many. Some peace – and privacy – might be theirs, if only for an hour or two.

Frodo, dreamy and sleepy, had nestled in beside Rosamunda next to baby Fredegar, who was still nursing. Freddy had been making her warm enough but now Frodo, tucked up tight against her, was making her sweat. She could feel the perspiration gathering at her temples and on the top of her lip and trickling down between her breasts. She wished she had a clean handkerchief to hand – Freddy had spoiled the one she'd had – so she used her sleeve. But she let the sleeping child be.

She did not really know this lad or his parents – not well – only as casual acquaintances distantly related whom she had seen several times at the Hall. She gazed down at him over Freddy's round head, as the baby finished up in stops and starts. The boy was breathing softly, his small chest rising and falling under his play-stained shirt. His eyes, beneath white lids delicately scrolled with faint blue veining, moved and slid beneath them in some dream-state, fanning the lash-wings over his cheeks. Pale he was – paler still against the darker dome of Freddy's head which, now he was sated, had lolled away from the breast. She thought him very beautiful.

And all around them recumbent children dozed.

Gazing down toward the river, trying to fend off sleep, she saw men with grave faces approaching, as if looking for something or someone. They were moving in her direction. They stopped before her, stared at the sleeping child and hesitated. Then one stooped over her to whisper the awful news: _Dead. Drowned. Both_.

Restraining a reflexive jolt, Rosamunda did not move but continued to stroke the damp hair from the sleeping child's forehead with a steady, soothing rhythm. _Let him sleep for now. Greedy death can wait another hour._

_x x x_

_1380 – 1389_ _- Buckland and Budgeford_

In the ensuing days, by mutual consent little Frodo was left where he had become most comfortable, which was in the warmth of the Bolger circle: Rosamunda, Odovacar and baby Freddy. Odovacar was a tiny bit miffed at being landed with another child to claim yet more of his young wife's attention. But for the moment he beheld the three of them there, settled into the couch in the Bolger's guest room at the Hall. He warmed to the picture they made: the boy's eyes focused somewhere far off, his pale cheek flushed against the heat of his wife's side, her fingers threaded loosely through the orphan's looping curls while Freddy suckled, nestled in the crook of her other arm. Though it warmed him, Odovacar wished the boys away. They should engage a nurse. But Odovacar was a good-humoured, generous-spirited hobbit, able to put any pangs of displacement aside. After all, it was only temporary.

Arrangements were made for Frodo to stay on in Buckland, to be reared in the Brandybuck family as their ward unless another relative more suitable should come forward. But none did.

The Bolgers at last readied themselves to leave. They had made their general good-byes, but reserved an especially warm one for Frodo. As she bent to kiss him Rosamunda caught the wistful look in the boy's eyes. The baby began to fret so she straightened to quiet him. In between her soft cooings and cluckings she assured Frodo, "We shall see one another again soon, Frodo, you will see." Odovacar stooped down and gave him a smile and a friendly pat, adding, "That is so! We'll be back to visit in a month or two. In the meantime, you must come to visit us. Would you like that?"

Frodo shifted from foot to foot but a smile peeped out as he shyly answered, "Yes, thank you, sir – I should like that very much."

They might have lingered, standing there, but Freddy began to fret in earnest. With a wave and a smile, they walked away.

The Bolgers returned to their home in tiny Budgeford, about ten miles away on the western side of the Brandywine, up from Whitfurrows. Shady Bank it was called, dug into the steep-sloping north side of the Water. Snug and dry, it was nicely appointed. It was not a big place, but it suited a smaller family well. The gardens were poor, sadly, because of all the trees in which it was nearly hidden. But situated not far from the East Road and close to the Bridge, it was convenient for visiting to and fro.

_x x x_

After the time of his parents' drowning Frodo discovered a sensate comfort and pleasure in the company of the Bolgers which he found nowhere else. He did not confuse them with his parents, whom he continued to miss though less keenly as time passed. He was content to call them, "Auntie Rosa" and "Uncle Odo," though he knew they weren't. But they undoubtedly made him feel welcome in their midst. His artless enjoyment in their company and his unreserved appreciation endeared him to them in return.

While he lived in Buckland, Frodo visited the Bolgers at Shady Bank out of the bond that had been formed in just those few days following his parents' death, especially in the first few years. Brandybuck relations would bring him along when they paid a call in Budgeford. Rosamunda invited and encouraged Frodo to take part in the little family's life when he was there by helping – especially since her son was still too young to make him any sort of playfellow. But even when visitors brought other children along, Frodo usually preferred to be with Rosamunda and Freddy and later, Estella. She let him help care for the babies, which he enjoyed very much. He helped batheor and clothe them, gave them their food or saw to their amusementsWhen they became older, he might help with their lessons. He had no siblings of his own to care for. It was simply pleasurable to holdthe babies – and amusing.

When they returned to Budgeford after the drownings, the Bolgers did engage a nurse as Odovacar had wished. Although Rosamunda protested that she wanted to do it all herself, Pansy provided a welcome relief. A local woman whose own children were grown, Pansy had plenty of experience as well as earthy good-humour.

At the end of the spring, baby Freddy was almost a year old. Rosamunda prepared him for his bath while Pansy saw to the water and towels. Frodo was invited to help, too, which he was pleased to do. Rosamunda hoisted the big, naked baby onto a mat on the table.

"Now, you hold him steady, Frodo," she instructed. "Yes, just like that," she commended him as he stood earnestly by, holding the baby firmly. "We don't want him rolling off onto the floor, do we?"

She turned away to Pansy who was lifting the kettle of heated water, but upon her turning back, the sight of Frodo's shock and dismay, as a little yellow stream arched high into the air and onto his sleeve, almost undid her. Quickly she threw Frodo a towel. "Put this on top!" she managed to say, suppressing her mirth. But Pansy's mirth was not to be contained. The nurse laughed and snorted and sighed at the sight of Frodo's shocked face.

"It's not funny!" Frodo declared, taking umbrage. His face displayed the affront he felt.

"Oh, come, Frodo-lad!" Pansy guffawed between rills of mirth, "You made plenty of little fountains of your own when you were baby, I'll wager!"

Frodo turned his chagrined face to Rosa's, seeking support, but the sight of the corners of her mouth creeping up proved contagious. His mouth quivered; the frown became a smile which became a grin in swift succession, breaking forth into peals of laughter. Once the giggles had subsided, however, Rosa saw that Frodo continued to fret at his damp sleeve and sniff it suspiciously.

"Oh, give it to me, then," she relented, stripping it off him. "We'll rinse it out," she said and handed it to Pansy.

Frodo continued dutifully to hold the baby steady, while making sure the towel was firmly in place in case there should be any further waterworks. Although the weather outside was very fine, it must have been a bit chilly in the house. Frodo hadn't complained, but Rosamunda could see his white skin was stippled with goose pimples. From a stack of folded laundry, she snapped open one of Odovacar's shirts. "You'll not fit into anything of Freddy's! This will have to do, I'm afraid. Go ahead and put it on, Frodo."

Rosamunda lifted the baby into the basin so that Frodo was free to pull the shirt on, its sleeves and hem dangling nearly to the floor. He looked quite comical, but she restrained her mirth. Pansy managed with effort to follow the example of her mistress. Rosamunda glanced at him there, standing gravely by as she laved her son. Pansy did, too. But she beamed at him, saying, "I think you shall fill out a grown hobbit's shirt very nicely, Master Frodo, when you are grown!"

Frodo's cheeks pinked with pleasure and his little chest expanded, as if already imagining such a transformation. He decided he liked Pansy very much better! Then his attention returned to the source of his wetting and he gazed at the baby in the bath. He wondered if he had made a fountain on his mother's sleeve. A smile – but then a shadow – passed over his face. But only for a moment, as he returned his attention to Freddy in the basin, rapt in the sight of Rosamunda's hands moving over the body of her son, dark over light.

_x x x_

Rosamunda observed how well Frodo did with Freddy, as he did with Estella when she came. She thought he would make a fine father some day and told him so. These encouragements and shows of confidence always inspired in Frodo visible pleasure.

But all their visits were not spent indoors. With Pansy helping, Rosamunda again had time for long walks and talks and other pleasures. Odovacar was very glad he had insisted on securing her, if not for Rosa, then for himself. When Freddy began to run about, Pansy would take him out to play – and Frodo, too – if he was there. Odovacar would take his wife inside, to bed.

After those first few years, Frodo still came to Shady Bank though not as frequently. But he saw the Bolgers each time they visited in Buckland. It was far enough away for an overnight invitation to be very welcome, but close enough to make the journey a frequent one. The Bolgers came to all the large events. For the feasts of Yule and Lithe they did so, certainly, unless they went to Great Smials instead. They were visiting there when Frodo's uncle, Bilbo Baggins arrived for one of his brief but highly anticipated visits. Frodo appeared at the door of the guest quarters where the Bolgers were staying with Bilbo in tow.

Bilbo actually was Frodo's cousin, but very much removed in age. He enjoyed a very colourful reputation in the Shire, based upon his famous exploits in foreign parts some fifty years back. He was reputed to be nearly one hundred, but he appeared to be much younger. Some said his perennial youth was due the breath of the dragon he had faced down. Others said it was the dragon's treasure, exuding magical powers from within the cellars of his spacious hole in Hobbiton. There, at Bag End, he continued to live alone, a bachelor. But of these things none spoke openly; not in his presence, anyway. Rosamunda had been charmed by Bilbo and his tales since childhood, for he often had visited in Tookland. Odovacar knew him less well but warmed to the elder hobbit's lively manner. Pansy was too much in awe of Bilbo to feel quite comfortable in his presence.

Bursting in upon the Bolgers, Frodo rushed to display the wonder that he held: a real shell from the Sea.

"Gandalf brought it all the way from Rivendell! Lord Elrond sent it as a gift to Bilbo!" Frodo was relating what Bilbo told him as they had made their way together to the Bolger's rooms. "Bilbo says they have ever so many there! Some come all the way from Elvenhome across the Sea!" Frodo enthused breathlessly.

Bilbo, from behind his nephew added self-effacingly, "But this is not one of those, surely. This one comes from our Sea, near the Grey Havens, I should imagine. Still, it is a very beautiful gift – and beautifully meant."

"_A memento for you, Bilbo_, Gandalf said to Uncle," Frodo told them, referring to Bilbo as he spoke; "_A token that you shall always be welcome_!" Frodo turned then to the Bolgers and beamed, "Bilbo says I may keep it in my room while he is here!"

Bilbo smiled affectionately at his nephew's excitement. He had watched the way Frodo was drawn to the shell from first sight, admiring its beautiful form and colour as he handled it with reverent care. Brushing his small fingertips over its snowy sides to savour its fine softness, Frodo then ran them over the glossy places where it curled around and in. Bilbo could see the lad loved its colour, holding it up to the light and turning it to and fro. From purest white it changed to pink, then blushed to rose, stained deepest where it curved around and sank from sight. "Perhaps the Sea sound comes from just behind here," Frodo wondered aloud. But try as he might, Frodo could not reach far enough inside to touch the hidden chamber he imagined.

"I'm afraid there's nothing to touch, Frodo, my lad. There is no real _inside_, the way you are thinking of it." Bilbo told him this after watching several vain attempts. "I've seen one shorn in two. Its sides just wind round and round until they reach their own beginning. Like this – " Bilbo made a spiralling shape for Frodo in the air.

Frodo looked up and asked, "But where does the sound come from, then, Uncle?" Bilbo had confessed, "Alas, I do not know." Frodo did not appear truly satisfied.

Now, in the Bolger's midst, Frodo showed it round, letting each hold it in turn, cautioning them to be very careful. "Listen like this!" Frodo demonstrated, sliding the shell up under his hair and holding it over his ear. "There is a noise in it! Gandalf says it is very like the Sea!"

Each obliged, holding the shell as instructed to hear the sound, even Pansy. But when Estella, the baby, stretched out her little hands to grasp it, Frodo pulled it back. When she screwed up her face to wail, Rosamunda hastened to intervene, though gently.

"Perhaps, Frodo," she suggested diplomatically, "you might hold your hands under Estella's. That way you could be sure to catch the shell if she should let it go." Her face bore a look of reasoned entreaty. Frodo hesitated, his brows knitting in a thoughtful scowl. He could see they had braced themselves, waiting for Estella's storm to break.

Oh, very well. He would trust her.

"I suppose that will be all right," Frodo conceded. Around him he heard suppressed exhalations of relief. Frodo handed the shell to his uncle. Carefully spreading his fingers under Estella's, Frodo waited until Bilbo had placed the shell into the finger nest. Then, cupping his hands around the baby's, the treasure was finally shared without tumult.

_x x x_

At the Hall, the Brandybucks were very good to Frodo and he was grateful for their outgoing hospitality. It was there that Meriadoc Brandybuck, their only child and heir, became fast friends with Freddy, who was only two years older. Both little boys trailed after Frodo, which he both enjoyed and found annoying. But though the Brandybucks cared for Frodo and he for them, he was not one of their own. Their society was boisterous and their numbers large. In the much smaller family circle of the Bolgers, Frodo yet enjoyed a bit of what he missed, which was affection of a type he no longer received anywhere else. Among the children at the Hall, there were hugs and smacking kisses, giggling games of sexual exploration and much rough-and-tumble play. But there was not the tender, affectionate sort of regard that he observed within the intimate circle of the Bolger family. In their company Frodo basked in its reflected warmth.

Frodo loved to watch Odovacar and Rosamunda together, displaying all the little marks of affection that pass between a loving hobbit and his wife. Lightly, she would touch her husband's arm or smooth his hair while she made a point, or rest her cheek upon his shoulder as they sat and talked. He might stand with his arm around her while she worked in her kitchen, to talk or steal a laughing kiss. Often, they held hands when they walked. At the Hall, Aunt Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc were far more formal, even distant with each other – at least when Frodo was present. He loved to watch Odovacar hoist little Freddy up and toss him up to the sky or dandle Estella, when she came, upon his knee, cooing silly talk into her ear to make her giggle. Frodo was too big to toss or dandle, but the older hobbit would clap a friendly hand upon his shoulder or pull him close for a gruff hug. Odovacar would join the children in their rowdy games upon the small shady green that edged their home, allowing them to clamber over him and spoil his clothes. But especially Frodo loved to watch Rosamunda with Freddy and Estella, whether embracing them or simply offering a light touch of her fingers to guide them as they went. When she touched Frodo, placing a hand on his arm or washing a scraped knee, he loved merely to observe the sight of her long, shapely fingers upon his own skin. Burnished-brown moving over light: like a bird's tawny wing settling over its own white side he thought them, as her fingers hovered then alighted. Thus engrossed, Frodo would forget his pain for the moment.

_x x x_

_1389_** - **_Hobbiton_

Nine years from the time his parents died, Frodo was taken to the western part of the Shire to live at Bag End in Hobbiton. Bilbo Baggins had stepped forward to take his young cousin into his sole personal care and made him his heir. Frodo was nearly twenty-one, just embarking upon his 'tweens.

Frodo continued to visit Buckland though not as often as he would like, due to distance from the West Farthing. It was nearly fifty miles. Day journeys they made on foot, but for visits to the Brandybucks they drove the trap, kept at the Cottons along with the pony. At the Hall, Frodo continued to be the favourite with little Merry and Freddy. But in Hobbiton, although he missed his Buckland friends, Frodo quickly settled into his new life with Bilbo. He liked the quiet, as well as the particular attention he received. And he was not bereft of other children with whom he might associate. Right away, Bilbo invited the Boffin lads from nearby Underhill to come and meet his new companion. The Boffins kept flocks of sheep, grazing them in the outlying lands. Their orchards were reknowned as well. Although Folco Boffin was further along in his 'tweens, he took the younger lad under his wing, showing him all the points of interest thereabouts that only another child would know, as well as recommending Frodo to his own little circle of friends.

Frodo's closest companion in Hobbiton, however, remained Bilbo himself. Although he was so much older, Bilbo always spoke to Frodo as his equal in terms of his understanding. But in knowledge, Frodo had much to learn. Bilbo's knowledge was very great and he was eager to share it. He not only knew about things which Frodo might be expected to learn, he knew about very much more besides. He knew about and even consorted with Elves and Dwarves and wizards. Dwarves had visited in Bag End itself, as Frodo knew from all the tales.

Frodo at last met the wizard Gandalf, notorious and bold – as Frodo had learned from Bilbo's thrilling tales. Gandalf had brought gifts and delicacies from Rivendell as usual, but Frodo must be patient. However, before Bilbo shooed the lad out so he might have a closeted talk with Gandalf, the wizard touched him on the shoulder and smiled, plucking a sweet from a beautiful casket. "Here, take it, my boy. These are from the Elves, you know!" Frodo was awed, but managed to stammer his gratitude. It was extremely delicious.

It was at about this time that Frodo started to keep his own journal. Bilbo was not only a scholar but a chronicler as well, making many histories and books that recorded what he'd learned. They contained pictures he had drawn, as well as charts and maps. Frodo admired these exceedingly and wished to make the same for himself. So Bilbo gave him a notebook – very nice – much too nice for a boy, most would say. It had a fine cover, too – oxblood red and smooth under his touch. The blank pages were creamy and rich.

Bilbo always went tramping when the weather was fine. Now he took Frodo with him, who cantered ahead and brought back reports of the lay of the land. Bilbo carried their books. Together they would settle to write and sketch the things that caught their eye. Bilbo preferred rocky outcroppings, an interesting tree or a ruined gate. Frodo preferred things that moved. "That's a fine bird!" Bilbo would say, "You've a keen eye, Frodo! The pinions are rendered exceedingly well! Your eye for detail really is quite good."

Frodo would blush – always a clear sign of his pleasure, blooming under the fair skin passed down from some remote Took.

"Now, what is it called? And what are its characteristics? Write it down. I know you can _see_ – but how is your thinking? That is always good to develop, as well."

Frodo carefully would enter a text. He loved his journals. In fact he loved his books, all of them.

_x x x_

The Bolgers visited in Hobbiton, too, when on their way west to see Rosamunda's relations in Tookland. Her father, Sigismond, was born in the same year as Bilbo but he had no dragon magic to keep him young. At ninety-nine, he had become quite frail; Rosamunda knew her opportunities to see him were not unlimited. When they made these visits, Bilbo invited the Bolgers to stop with him.

At Bag End, Rosamunda and Bilbo got on very well. With interests in common and a mutual liking, they had been easy with each other from the time of her girlhood. She even enjoyed Bilbo's books, which was not common among her kin, but only the pictures, charts and maps. These she pored over with great interest, asking questions about them all. Otherwise, she much preferred a tale told round a fire to one read in a book. Bilbo had tried lending her small volumes of tales when visiting the Smials. He had thought, "_Perhaps this one might be the one to entice her_?" But she was not enticed. Eventually, shame-faced, she would return them, one by one, unread.

Apart from her not liking reading, Rosamunda was the sort of young woman Bilbo truly liked: intelligent, good-humoured and frank. And once she'd grown up, Bilbo, too, had appreciated what other hobbits saw in her, though he never saw fit to act upon it himself. He had had his little flings, but he did not mean to marry and was not a person to lead others to expect he might. In his long experience, it was far better to be friends. That fellow she married, Odovacar Bolger, would do very well for her. He had thought so from the first. Odovacar was not a thinker, but he was clever and a pleasant fellow with a ready wit, though a little coarse. His way with hobbit women was well known and snickered at – and widely envied. _Yes, they would do very well_.

And Bilbo, himself? However youthful Bilbo might look, most folk would say he really was too old. _Alas, too true_, he thought ruefully.

_x x x_

_1390_** - **_Tookland and Hobbiton_

The Bolgers returned increasingly to Tookland so that Rosamunda might see her father, who was failing fast. As he worsened, they might stop at Bag End for only an hour or two, for the comfort of the children, before they sped on to the family home. Westward, out past Waymeet, then south toward Whitwell it was, tucked into grasslands and sheltered by a copse, not too far from Great Smials. Her gentle but melancholy father, Sigismond had continued there alone these many years, with the help of a hobbit woman from Tuckborough secured through the Thain's kindly wife, Eglantine. Now, Rosamunda's younger brother, Ferdinand, with his wife and new baby had moved in, too, in order to provide further help. As her father's condition worsened, Rosamunda turned the supervision of her children over to others at the very much larger Smials. With her children entertained elsewhere, she was better able to tend to her father's needs.

Odovacar brought his family into Tookland and collected them afterwards, but he did not stay long at her father's. He made use of such visits to see to the concerns of tenants who lived in holdings in the area, but primarily to join the Tooks in hunting. Many of the Tooks were keen for hunting, both for the sport and for the needs of the table. The forests and uplands of the Green Hills where they made their homes still teemed with game. Odovacar was good with a bow and enjoyed using it, having hunted from youth with his father and then with his friends. Off hunting, he left Rosamunda to care for her father. Such tasks were best done by a woman.

In the Thain's huge home there were plenty of children for Freddy and Estella to play with. Among Paladin and Eglantine's own children, Pimpernel and Pervinca were close in age to them. The Took's eldest child, already very lovely, was Pearl. She was then fifteen. She would not play willingly with the younger children although she would consent to boss them, but did enjoy holding and caring for them while they still were little. Pippin, their last, was born that year. Pearl thought him a detestable brat.

It was the Took children who began to call Fredegar, "Fatty" and the name stuck. But, as good-natured as his father, he did not seem to mind. A roly-poly baby, he'd become a stout child, though not enough to slow him down at play. He was stout of body, but also of heart, willing to match their challenges. The other children respected him for it.

_x x x_

Rosamunda began to resent the effects time was having on those she loved during these visits. Not only had her father become ravaged by age and illness, Odovacar had begun to seem older to her, too. Although he was twenty-five years her senior they had always enjoyed their life together to its full capacity. When Rosamunda had married him, having just come of age, Odovacar, to her, was indeed an "older man" – and an attractive one – fully in his prime. He was a big hobbit, strapping and handsome in the common way. He loved good food, good drink and good company. He was open-hearted and generous, though astute in business and common sense dealings, sparkling and much inclined to mirth. Rosamunda had known (as had most of the Shire) that he had loved frolicking, sexually, in his youth – and not only with the lasses. But he was truly enamoured of Rosamunda. Once married, he had in fact schooled Rosamunda in all he had learned. Rosamunda proved an apt pupil and he never strayed from her. Before Odovacar had courted her, she had been offered fumbling, artless kisses by her peers who pushed their hands up under her skirts, only to be slapped away. None of them offered what she experienced with Odovacar. His sensuality was unmistakable from the first stolen kisses outside her family's smial. Her father had the eyes to see it would be unwise to insist upon a long engagement.

But now Odovacar, too, was showing the signs of age. In the evenings she might find him asleep in front of the fire when she had finished with the children – the time when they usually relaxed together and talked and readied themselves for making love. Their night pleasures yet remained, if less energetic and frequent than they had been. He was tiring more easily on their rambles together, too, long one of their mutual enjoyments. But primarily it hurt her to notice the colour beginning to fade from his cheeks. His skin had begun to loosen slightly from the shrinking flesh beneath, cheeks that so recently had been round and bright as apples. And the sparkling, merry eyes had lost some of their twinkle and brilliance. His bodily strength, by which even this last year he could have swung her around till she was dizzy, or toss a hefty Fredegar high into the air, seemed diminished, too. When he thought no one was looking, he had begun to stoop.

Passing back through Hobbiton once more, the Bolgers stopped at Bag End. Other guests were expected to dinner. Relieved that they were only four among several others, Rosamunda settled back and listened to Bilbo's latest tales of meeting up with Gandalf and their Elvish friends. She had always loved to hear such stories, especially of the beautiful Elves. But in the firelight, watching Bilbo vigorously holding forth, everyone's attention rapt and their faces full of wonder, she thought of the skeletal father she had just left. She stole a glance at the face of her husband, which was looking somewhat haggard in repose now that his show of cheer was set aside. She felt resentment rise in her heart. The Elves and their immortality: the unfairness of it chafed her.

_x x x_

_1391, Midwinter_** - **_Tookland and Bag End_

Rosamunda's father died soon after. They returned that she might see to his burial, helped by her brother. It was agreed that he would stay on in the family home. The Bolger residence in Budgeford was her home, now, she assured him and Freddy would inherit it one day. She wanted only a few cherished pieces of furniture which had belonged to her mother, especially the great bed in which she had been born and her parents died.

Eglantine sent a matron to help Rosamunda lay her father out, bringing her water – hot and cold – beyond what she might have needed before as a guest. Together they stretched his body upon a table, borrowed from the Smial's kitchens. Her father was still tall, but very gaunt. As Rosamunda swabbed him down, the Took matron brought her all she needed. She should have been ashamed, she thought, seeing him so. But she wasn't. She thought as she washed him: _Here is the one who brought me forth. But now he is gone, gone forever._ It pained her, just the thought: both her parents now were dead.

They returned to Budgeford via Hobbiton, but Rosamunda was in no mood to stop. Odovacar had gone on ahead. From the pony trap she looked down at Bilbo, standing outside his gate with Frodo to welcome them in. She did not get down.

"Won't you stay, Rosa? Perhaps a pot of tea, then – and some refreshments for the children? They would like to stretch their legs, at least!" he urged her, quite solicitously.

She thought: _He ought to look as my father did - old and diminished_. _They were born in the same year._ But Bilbo seemed aglow with his unnatural youth. _Unnatural._

She looked at Frodo and his dewy beauty. _It will not last_, she thought, _not even his_. _He had better make use of it, while it does._

No, she would not stay.

Her children were disappointed at the briefness of the meeting, but refrained from making any protest. Estella and Freddy had never seen their mother in such a mood. Suddenly, the Bolgers were gone.

Bilbo turned to Frodo with a brusque word of consolation. "She is upset; she is not herself, my lad." He put her distant mood and cold behaviour down to agitation and grief, from the recent loss. But Frodo was truly hurt. He had wanted to say something – anything – to make her look at him with friendliness. But she had gone so quickly, he could not. He thought: _She did not even know me_.

"Come on, then. Let's have the tea ourselves." Bilbo, taking Frodo's arm, drew him inside.

_x x x_

_1391-1394_ - _ Budgeford and Buckland_

The coming of spring proved irresistible and Rosamunda's dark mood passed. When Frodo came for his long visits from Hobbiton, he continued to be heartily welcomed at the Bolgers, where they often would stop on their way into Buckland. Increasingly, Freddy would ride with Bilbo and Frodo, staying on at the Hall to be with Merry and the other lads while Frodo was there.

Since they only saw him occasionally, the Bolgers could see how Frodo was growing out of boyhood. This was remarked upon with winks and jokes and words of affirmation, which he enjoyed, though he tried to pretend he did not.

Long now had Frodo delighted in creeping up behind Pansy or Rosamunda, to throw his arms about their waists, pulling them close for a laughing embrace. Rosamunda would shoo him away with a show of annoyance that was unfeigned, the times he truly had startled her, before she joined him in the joke. But Pansy would yelp with delighted laughter and capture his little wrists in her plump grip. Then she would smother him with noisy kisses that sent him into fits of giggles. "You'd best not try that again, Master Frodo," she would caution him with a grin, "or I'll drag you off for another dozen!" Frodo would accept the challenge and do it all over again. Each time, Freddy and Estella found this screamingly funny. And so it was.

But now, Frodo was twenty-three, definitely embarked upon his 'tweens, if there had been any doubt before The very last time Frodo had crept up on Pansy, she had laughed but had not kissed him. Holding him away with both reddened hands, the old nurse had looked at Frodo with frank appraisal, winked and said with a chuckle, "I'm thinking, young Master, you shouldn't be wasting your charms on the likes of me. It's time you were flinging your arms round other lasses -- if you've not done so already!" Frodo blushed furiously, abashed. Pansy relented and crushed him to her in her old embrace. "There, now," she said, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek. "You're still my best lad! I only meant, you'll want to be spreading your favours about more! The lasses will be standing in line outside my door if you don't!" Frodo's pleasure at the implied praise overpowered any unhappy feelings, and a smile was coaxed from him. With a laugh, he gave Pansy a squeeze before he turned and skipped out the door.

Rosamunda observed this exchange and was not unmoved. But Pansy was right. He was not the little child they had known. Once upon a time, the top of Frodo's head was barely higher than her elbows. His arms and little hands, flung about her skirts, did not meet over her apron. But now he nearly reached her height and his hands had long been able to go well around her. _You see, Auntie? I am big now!_

Frodo would show off his growing strength, squeezing her until she demanded release. Yes, he was too old for this game. It seemed harmless with Pansy, but when he threw his arms around her now, it made Rosamunda feel a bit uneasy. When she allowed the thought to peek into her mind, the thought emerged that the sweet, beautiful little lad who had come to them eleven yearsago was become a nearly-grown one. She always had treated her young friend with affection, almost like a son. But Frodo was not her son, not really, _was_ he?

However much she resisted examining this – in depth – she perceived enough to resolve a change in behaviour. She began, therefore, gently to nudge him away while trying not to make him feel rebuffed. She understood how much their affection had meant to him. But Frodo was not easy to rebuff. He could be obstinate, even wilful, when it mattered.

As it turned out, Rosamunda was reprieved. Frodo finally had become more interested in his peers at the Hall, rather than spending so much of his time with his young admirers, Merry and Freddy. Together with these older lads, Frodo began to tear around Buckland. Their exploits were on the lips of all the adults, who were both amused and irritated. She was annoyed with herself to discover how much she missed his friendly company.

During the next few seasons the cycle of visits and social gatherings continued. Rosamunda sawFrodo at large events when she was visiting in Buckland, bantering with friends his own age. Shewas pleased at the sight of him showing a typical interest in the lasses there assembled and they in him. Her possible "problem" seemed taken care of or, even, that she had imagined it. But as she observed him more closely she noted that Frodo had not taken aparticular fancy to any of these, a fancy which might move him toward forming an attachment, even if an adolescent one. This lack of a strong interest in someone in particular worried her. But at the same time, she was pained to acknowledge a tiny feeling of relief. _Bother._

When Frodo seemedto have had enough of rampaging through the countryside with the lads, he was again more present with the Bolgers at Shady Bank,though not nearly as much as before. Freddy spent far more time in Buckland now, where there were so many more friends to play with than in Budgeford. At Brandy Hall,Merry and Freddy still were following Frodo about – or tried to – for they had long ago made of him their "captain."

Frodo made a few efforts to re-establish the affectionate familiarity of his friendship with Rosamunda. But his attempts were tentative now, rarely expressed in gesture. He reserved all that for Pansy, who still would indulge him. This new reserve toward her, though, was a good sign, Rosamunda thought. Frodo still had not understood the reasons for the change in her behaviour, nor its necessity. While he was aware of Rosamunda's gentle attempts to distance him, he had no idea why she was doing it. He remained a bit bewildered and felt vaguely perturbed. But she was an adult and he nominally a child, so he made the effort to respect her apparent wishes or mood, as was only fit and right.

_x x x_


	2. Friendship Changes: The Kettle Simmers

_1395, Before Yule - Bag End_

The Bolgers stopped in Hobbiton on their way to celebrate the Yuletide festivities with the Tooks that year. Normally – especially due to the typically bad weather – the Bolgers were received among the Brandybucks for this feast. But the weather had been unusually fair, though chilly. The roads were not mired, for the rain had been little. They decided, for a change, to go to the Smials for the days of Yule. Odovacar, as usual, stopped only intermittently, riding off daily to tend to business in the area. The tenants had questions for him and wolves had been seen, so folk said. It was here, away from the familiar setting of the Bolger home, that Rosamunda discovered that Frodo's affections for her really had altered in the way she had feared. He now was twenty-seven and old enough.

The evening meal had been a convivial and pleasant one; the candles on the table burnt low as testimonial to the time they had spent at it. Still in festive spirits, the adults brought their glasses of wine with them into the hospitable parlour of Bag End; the children took their cider. The crackling fire in the great hearth made the colours and textures of everything richer in the glowing chiaroscuro – including Rosamunda herself. Not a few glasses of Old Winyards had been raised and all its drinkers were feeling its effects. Rosamunda's pleasure in the evening was all the greater for seeing her husband looking so well, as if quite restored to his former lively spirits. Freddy and Estella commandeered Frodo's attention for the most part, for a game by the fire.

The two hobbits took particular notice of Rosamunda, the only adult woman present, though she was not aware of it. Odovacar had been watching her with admiration, if not frank desire.

And Bilbo? Not only for the pleasure of looking at a fine hobbit woman, but also because of his life-long interest in the study of how folk behaved, Bilbo watched her too. And he watched Odovacar, watching her.

She was in fine spirits! Her colour was high from the wine and fire, her dark eyes radiant with enjoyment. Her golden-brown crimped hair caught the light as it spilled out of its pins as usual. Despite her efforts to keep it tidily confined, it made narrow gold-brown snaking trails down her neck, glossy in the fire-sheen. The wine had left a red jewel on her browned lips, a bit chapped, but full and generous. Throwing her head back to laugh at one of Bilbo's jokes, she displayed her gleaming teeth and the rosy interior behind them. It was not difficult for Bilbo to guess what Odovacar was thinking, now that his unhealthy colour was restored to its former bloom. Bilbo himself was thinking of it, though he no longer was inclined to act upon such thoughts. Those little affairs were past and done.

Then Bilbo noticed he and Odovacar were not the only ones watching her. Frodo watched, too – watched intently – from his stool by the fire with the Bolger children, still playing their game. But Frodo played with a growing lack of attention.

_Yes, my lad, she's well worth watching_, Bilbo thought to himself, his eyes glinting in the light of the fire. He looked back to the Bolgers: Odovacar had reached impulsively across and taken his wife's free hand, ardently pressing the centre of her palm to his mouth and holding it there for his kiss. His other hand slid up her throat under the strands of escaped hair, above her pointed chin, to cup the side of her face with his fingertips. Rosamunda showed a little embarrassment at her husband's impetuous gesture in the presence of Bilbo. But she nevertheless took her husband's hand from her cheek and, with obvious love and pleasure, just as impulsively pressed a kiss there in return.

_Oh, dear. Did the lad see that?_

Bilbo stole a glance back at Frodo. Frodo looked transfixed and motionless, except for the rise and fall of his chest as he took deep, measured breaths through his parted lips. His eyes, in that pale face, turned away from the fire, looked nearly black.

_Oh, yes: he'd seen that. _

Then the moment dissolved. Estella pulled on Frodo's sleeve, calling his name, reminding him that it was his turn. Rosamunda, having perceived her husband's intentions, with suppressed joy, rose and together they bade Bilbo and Frodo a fond goodnight. Yes, Estella and Freddy might stay up, but only for one more hour. Frodo turned back to his two young admirers and, with an effort, resumed the game. Bilbo stayed on, looking into the fire while he nursed his last glass, and then prepared a pipe.

_x x x_

The next day, quite brisk under the wan sun of year's end, the young folk went off in search of amusement. Bag End was quiet. Odovacar was off in Hobbiton wrapping up business but would return in time for dinner. Bilbo and Rosamunda, each in their own way, relished the respite. The winter light made the kitchen dark and Rosamunda had to kindle the lights to begin her work. Once at the Smials, Eglantine would want to oversee all the cooking herself, so Rosamunda promised to make their Yule treat here at Bag End. She would make two: one for the children and one to leave with Bilbo, for a gift. She had gathered her tools and ingredients onto the big central work table. Pushing up her sleeves, she went to work. She faced the interior of the house where wall sconces afforded a bit of additional light.

Frodo was the first one back. Through the side entry he burst infrom the late-afternoon coldrelishing the smack of warmth in the kitchen, full of the smells of good things cooking. Hepulled off his jacket and scarfand flung them over the hooks. The others still were in the outbuildings looking at livestock with the Gamgees, he told her. Frodo felt a bit giddy and breathless from the chill, clearlyin high spiritsForgetting for once the "new rules" he softly skipped up behind Rosamunda and gave her one of his old "surprise" embraces, throwing his arms around her waist and squeezing her tight. He laughed with delighted triumph at the start he gave her **–** just as he had done so many times before.

But almost at once Frodo sensed something was different. This was not like the other times. Once, his small laughing face would have pressed just above the small of her back; later, between her shoulder blades. The last time he had done this, he had almost been her height. But now his face was beside hers his cheek just brushing her own. His laughter made warm little puffs of air which assailed her ear and the back of her neck. Her fine-textured hair, spilling out of its pins, tickled his nose and cheek as his breath made the wisps and strands float away and back. His laughter faltered and suddenly ceased. She had always smelled good to him, but so close – especially here where her hair trailed upon her neck only inches from his eyes – Frodo found that her fragrance filled his senses. He held himself still.

Every other time Frodo had done this he would have released her by now.They would have performed the ritual mock-scolding,dissolving into mutual laughter. But not this time. Frododid not let her go; rather, he clenched his fingers tighterinto the fabric where his arms were twined about her waist. He pulled her closer and felt her stiffen against him. A sense of prohibition fretted at the edge of Frodo's mind, but he put it aside. Rosamunda did not speak or move but remained still, as if in suspense.

It was very quiet in the kitchen, with only the sound of hissing noises from the meat simmering on the stove, the lid making a skittering, metallic noise as moisture bubbled up and raised it from the rim of the pot. No, there was another sound: Rosamunda's breathing. Frodo could hear it clearly: exhalations like little jets of air, timed with the laboured in-and-out movement of the ribs of her back that he could feel tense against his chest. As he held her thus, his lips barely grazing the shell of her ear while his breath stirred in her hair, he felt her gathered tensiondraining away. Now she felt yielding and pliant. Frodo drew her to him till he could feel her body all along his own.Acutely conscious of the planes and rounds and dipping places that made up the back of her, Frodo felt all the heat in the room gather there until he felt melted into the closeness of their fit. He heard a sigh and felt a shudder but did not know from whom they issued. He let his mouth – hovering – not quite touching ­– skim along the surface of her neck, warm and fragrant, pausing to linger in the angle of her shoulder where the turn of her collar brushed his nose. He returned to the place where her hair made its silky trails, on the back of her neck just behind her ear. There the scent was best. He closed his eyes to breathe it in: _Ah, wonderful!_ Letting his lips alight at last, he savoured the spot with a tender kiss.

The feel of that kiss jolted Rosamunda out of her trance. Her eyes flew open: _when had she shut them_? She lurched rather violently aside, spinning round to face him with such speed she had to grab onto the table edge for balance. The wooden spoon clattered as it hit the hard floor. She felt her face scald and heard the sound of someone's ragged breathing – _his or_ _hers _– _or both?_ She gaped at Frodo: his face was flushed, his eyes wide – the pupils so dilated they seemed nearly black. His eyes looked stripped clean, stunned with new knowledge as he stood riveted by her stare and she by his. He tried to speak but no speech came.

It was then she heard a discreet noise from the door. A figure stood there in the shadow, very still_. Bilbo._ Frodo sprang even further away from her. With a great effort Rosamunda managed to recover herself, as she bent to scoop the spoon from the stone flags. She attempted a jest but it died before it was articulated. Frodo only looked dismayed. He muttered something before he stumbled past and down the hall.

She could not see Bilbo's face, where he was standing in the shadows. When he stepped into the kitchen toward her, she could not read his expression.

_What had he seen?_ A succession of images flooded her mind. From the doorway he would have seen – what? She thought of how she must have looked, her hair coming down, head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted. Looking down at the spoon she now gripped firmly, she pictured her hands then – lying palm upwards on the table surface, acquiescent and trembling, like bitch dogs showing their bellies to be scratched. She felt revolted. He would have seen his nephew behind her, glued to her back, his fingers digging into the cloth of her dress, his face buried in her hair, his hair mingled with hers. And he must have heard their breathing all the way to the door!

Bilbo made no comment, though he and Rosamunda exchanged glances as he came to the table. Then they put their joint energies into the task at hand, finishing up the preparations for the evening. Their talk, usually so easy and amiable, was strained and sparse. When he had finished his own tasks, Bilbo made ready to leave, but turned back to say, "Have a care, Rosa."

She attempted a light tone, saying, "Oh, Frodo will regain his equanimity!"

Bilbo answered, "I am sure he will. But in fact, I was thinking of yours."

_x x x_

Rosamunda now was very much on her guard. There would be no such opportunities in future. She should sit Frodo down, have a talk with him. He was old enough to know - he _must_ know - what he was doing now. But she did not talk to him. _Why not_? Sheknew why not. But she would not think about it. No.

But she did think about it. She thought of what had passed, thought of it over and over. Not how she had experienced it – that was a blur – but from Bilbo's perspective: Frodo pressed up behind her, oblivious, and her own response so . . . transparent: _a voluptuary_. Her face burned all over again, just recalling it. No. No, it wouldn't do. And she would not have it. _Double bother._

Frodo kept his distance that eveningbarely meeting her eyes – norOdovacar's when he had returned from his last errands. But Odovacar, Rosamunda could see, was too full of his own news and business to notice. Somewhat relieved, she tried with partial success to behave as though nothing had happened. Bilbo took it all in, his expression veiled.

Everyone had an early night and the Bolgers left for Tookland early in the morning. Frodo and Bilbo rose to see them off. Frodo allowed Freddy and Estella to claim all of his attention, Bilbo noted.

_x x x_

_1396, Summer_ - _Bag End_

After Lithe, having escorted the children to Tookland for their visit at Great Smials, Rosamunda returned but first stopped at Bag End. It was late when she arrived, almost sunset. When the trap pulled up, she saw one figure standing by the gate. _Just as she might wish_, she thought. Frodo, she knew already had left the Smials and gone ahead into Buckland. There would be no risk of seeing him here. She meant to have a talk with Bilbo – or to try.

Her attitude was most fortuitous, Bilbo thought, as soon as she made her meaning clear. He, too, had been hoping for a little talk.

When she was settled, the pony taken care of and her things inside, he plied her with a tray of late refreshments. Perhaps over a glass of wine or a pot of tea, she might be induced to tell him what he wanted to know. Bilbo wanted to confirm it, for himself: had he really seen what he thought he'd seen when he'd walked in that afternoon?

They ate in near silence, their meal barely sprinkled with speech, but they were silent in an easy way. Bilbo sipped his wine, Rosamunda, her tea. They shared a sweet and the meal was finished. Then Rosamunda appeared to brace herself, Bilbo could see. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in first.

"I will admit, Bilbo, I did not order things, then, as I might have. I ought to have shown better self-command," she said.

Bilbo's eyebrows rose. Rosamunda was proving more forthcoming – and more quickly – than he had anticipated! He poured her a fresh cup. But Rosamunda, watching the liquid pour – grown somewhat tepid now – said she might have some wine, after all.

Bilbo obliged her and waited while she drank most of it. He watched the crest on the goblet rotate as she turned it around in her hands between sips. She set it down and with a napkin, blotted her lips.

"I was . . . caught off guard . . . taken by surprise, I think," she said. "By Frodo, that is. His behaviour to me, I mean." She had begun to make a twist of her napkin end but stopped at once, noticing Bilbo's glance.

Bilbo remained silent, his face attentive.

Rosamunda smoothed the napkin then, pressing it flatter as she spoke. "I have been . . . uneasy as to what might be the state of Frodo's feelings towards me, at times – but, well, it shocked me, nonetheless – as indeed, it must have shocked you, Bilbo."

"I wasnot shocked," Bilbo corrected her, but gently. "I have been alive a long time, Rosa. That Frodo, at his present age might become . . . excited by the close proximity of an attractive lass, is a thing not unheard of."

Rosamunda had been folding the napkin into smaller and smaller squares, but stopped. "But I am not a lass, and not a beauty!"

"Do not underestimate your charms, Rosa," Bilbo checked her.

Rosa rolled her eyes.

"No, no," Bilbo went on, "I am in earnest. What you think of your own powers and what lads and men think are quite different things. You might consider it, at least. Frodo was attracted not to any woman's body, as far as I could tell, but to _yours_. And if not to you, yourself, then to what you exude."

Rosamunda held the little square tightly under her palm against the table, and looked at the back of her hand upon it.

"Let the two of us be frank, as old friends may be, eh, Rosa?" Bilbo moved closer, leaning slightly across the table.

Rosamunda restrained an impulse to shrink away, but lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

"Odovacar had been quite the lad in his youth, had he not? And once he'd come of age, he showed no sign of letting up, did he?"

"That was something known to everyone, I think," she answered cautiously, not sure whither Bilbo was leading.

"Do you know, Rosa? Many doubted that Odovacar would conform to wedded life the way he did, after he married." Bilbo paused, his gaze very keen upon her as he continued.

"As for me, I had no doubts. For I could see, quite well, that Odovacar had chosen wisely in a wife: _He had found a woman whose nature answered to his own_."

Two red spots formed on Rosamunda's cheeks; she dropped her gaze. Bilbo took her firm hand between his two soft ones and peered at her with acuity, but not without tenderness. She looked at him again.

"Come, come!" Bilbo soothed. "It is only the truth, is it not?" Bilbo patted the top of her hand, adding, "I can see quite well that you and Odovacar are very happy – _in that way. _It is plain to anyone with eyes in his head! So, why," Bilbo urged, "should it not be plain to Frodo, also – now very naturally taking a keen interest in such matters?"

Rosamunda still said nothing, but returned his gaze levelly.

"I realize you love the boy, Rosa. Has not your entire little family, ever since Frodo's parents died, treated him with special friendship, almost as one of your own? Have I not heard Frodo sing your family's praises these seven years since I brought him here to Bag End? He cares for you. And I know you have cared for your young friend, Rosa, almost as a son."

Giving her hand a squeeze he said, "and Frodo has loved youtoo. As a friend and somewhat as a mother. But, I think, as a friend _no longer_. Or, at least, this new feeling has been _added_ to the rest. Am I wrong, Rosa, do you think?"

"I wish you may be," she said, sighing, "but I fear you are not."

He sipped his wine and filled her glass again, then delicately pressed ahead.

"And would I be wrong, Rosa, to think that you yourself see Frodo, now . . . differently?" He saw her swallow, as if to speak, but she did not.

"It is not inconceivable to me, you see, that you might respond to Frodo in this new way, yourself." He did not see but sensed her flinch, her hands cupped tightly round her glass.

"It is true," Bilbo mused, "that Frodo's sort of looks are not universally appreciated by every lass who sees him. His colouring makes him look a little frail, perhaps, though he is not. Still, does not Frodo possess a kind of beauty which strongly speaks to those who can see it – in fact, to you?"

Rosamunda rallied at this and said with fervour, "I am _perfectly_ aware, Bilbo, that I find Frodo beautiful to look at. I have always found him so, from the moment that I met him when he was just a little lad. There is nothing new in that! You are mistaken, Bilbo," Rosamunda insisted, "in putting so much meaning on the thing you saw. That is _not_ the sort of friendship we have had. For Frodo, it surely was a matter of the sudden close proximity, a thing that might have had the same effect on any other youth. But that was _all_ it was."

She recounted, then, to Bilbo the efforts she had made to distance Frodo from her, out of the recognition that he was growing up.

Bilbo listened patiently as she had her say.

"I am as anxious as you, Bilbo, that Frodo should overcome this incident. If, as you seem to think it possible, Frodo should harbour some stronger sort of feeling, that would be a very ill thing, indeed. It would certainly be undesirable for him to be nurturing a fruitless fantasy. Especially about a person already married – _happily_ married."

Bilbo sat back in his chair then drew himself up.

"That is exactly what I should wish to hear, Rosa." He took her hand again, saying, "It reassures me, it comforts me to hear you say it. For I do not anticipate – I shall not be here – for very much longer."

"What do you mean? Are you ill, then, Bilbo?" Rosamunda swiftly asked, thoughts of her father entering her mind.

Bilbo laughed and then smiled, giving her hand a squeeze. "No, I'm not ill, Rosa, though I am beginning to feel my years at last. I know I don't look it. I have had good fortune in fending off the toll the years take. But it cannot keep up indefinitely, can it? I may have Elvish friends, but I am not an Elf myself!"

Rosa produced a smile in return, feeling relieved. It would be very hard for Frodo, if anything should happen to Bilbo, she thought.

Bilbo got up from the table and Rosamunda thought the interview was at an end. But he merely stood to say, "It pleases me to hear you say you want what's best for Frodo; so do I. For I do love him, Rosa. I love him as a son. Indeed, he is my heir, as if he were one."

Bilbo strode to the window and gazed out into the deepening dusk outside.

"When I am gone, Frodo will become the Master of Bag End. And, although I did not manage to do my duty in that way, it remains my dearest wish that Frodo might live here after me." Bilbo turned to her to say, "I wish to see him happy, Rosa, with a good wife who will fill this place with children – my grandchildren."

Rosamunda returned his level gaze and rising said, "That same wish for Frodo has ever been mine."

Bilbo strode up to her and taking Rosamunda's hand, he clasped it, as if to seal a bargain. "Good," he said. "Then we are of one mind in this, you and I."

Together they cleared away in thoughtful silence.

When they were finished, Rosamunda would have retired to her room but Bilbo invited her to join him by the open door. "Come, Rosa, it is beautiful tonight. We might enjoy it for a little while, I think."

Outside, Bilbo smoked and Rosamunda sipped her glass of wine as they sat in companionable silence under the starry sky. But the seats grew chilly at last and they retired for the night.

_x x x_

The next morning brought a post rider: Odovacar was dead. Stopping to assist a fellow traveller to mend a slipped wheel, he had been stricken while holding up the wagon box. Odovacar collapsed, they said, and never spoke again. Shortly thereafter he had died.

So, he had been ill! He had just turned seventy-six – just four years older than Frodo's father had been when he had drowned. Seventy-six was not yet old, not at all.

Rosamunda, after the first shock had receded, remembered her life with Odovacar and she spoke of it to Bilbo, to whom she already had confessed much only the night before. The more intimate details of her thoughts she did not speak of, but much he guessed. She told him she would miss her husband terribly, in so many ways. But to herself she admitted: yes, especially as her lover. Bilbo, however, did not need to be told this after their little chat the night before.

Bilbo said no more of their talk but uttered only the customary courtesies, though truly felt. He had liked Odovacar very well, though they had little in common in terms of their wider interests. Bilbo knew Estella and Freddy would be deeply bereft, as would Frodo who had loved his "Uncle Odo," in spite of his recent discomfiture over Rosamunda.

"Too young to die," was the overwhelming sentiment. But Rosamunda . . . so early widowed. It gave Bilbo pause.

_x x x_

Later that morning, Rosamunda prepared to start for Tookland where she would collect Estella and Freddy once again. She had a spare, practical conversation with Bilbo before leaving, trying to keep herself in check and remain clear-headed.

She would not stay on in Budgeford, no. She would have Shady Bank looked after by a caretaker – or let it. The home would be kept for Freddy upon his coming of age, of course. But there was now no reason to return there. She would come back to the West Farthing, to her own part of the country. Bilbo suppressed a start. Just out of Hobbiton, she continued, she could take the little hunting box and have it fitted up. It would do very well, snug and just big enough.

Bilbo sounded non-committal as he tried to show her that such a radical change of residence might not be for the best, not so soon, anyway.

She listened, and allowed herself to be persuaded. Well, then, Bilbo was right. Shady Bank, with so many friends nearby in Buckland, still was Freddy and Estella's home. She mustn't be precipitate. They would stay in Budgeford, after all. Thanking him for his advice and kindnesses, she drove off.

Bilbo's shoulders relaxed a little. A look at the garden might be nice. He saw the Gaffer's son at work and hailed him, "Samwise!" Bilbo strode down to meet him and watched the lad as he smoothed a new bed with the back of a rake. It had been a close thing, but it had passed.

_x x x_


	3. Change is Resisted: Keeping the Lid On

_1396-98_ - _Budgeford_

Bilbo was mistaken in his optimism. Rosamunda stayed in Budgeford all year long for only two more years. She decided to fit up the old hunting box for a cottage after all. Ovodacar, while still a young hobbit had used the box as a sort of base when he and his friends went hunting. They would stock the hole with gear and rations. Then, with their bows and a pack pony, they would make forays out from there toward the Downs or the North Moors, or into Bindbale Wood. But that was years ago, when the game had not yet moved so far off.

Rosamunda had always regretted leaving the west country where she grew up. Once married and installed as Mistress of Shady Bank, she had learned to live in a very different sort of place. Near the Water and the Brandywine the land was heavily forested where fields had not been made, especially along the rivers' banks. The place where Shady Bank stood was very lush, even overgrown, with verdure. Often she felt hemmed in, oppressed by its trees and heavy shade. In the west there were open expanses and distant vistas of rolling farmland and pasture, covered in turf and scrub, all under a vast canopy of sky. In summers, it was hotter near the rivers and often humid and in winters, fogs and mists brought days of gloom. Yes, it was the open country, with its rush of air from the west that she loved best.

When Rosamunda married, she had not been sorry to get away from Tookland and the Smials. It had meant coming out from under the oversight of her father and away from more bustle than she truly liked. And she had enjoyed becoming mistress of her own sphere, along with the privacy it afforded. And if the privacy became too great, she could visit in Buckland, at the Hall. She liked its easy, casual familiarity – but without the expectation of familial intimacy – since she was not really "one of theirs." Amid the sprawl of the Brandybucks, one so inclined might relax, observe and enjoy oneself without being drawn into the interpersonal dramas of that world.

But now back in Budgeford, under the great trees, Rosamunda felt the loss of Odovacar keenly, even more than she had anticipated. She wished herself away. But the family must continue to live there during the greater part of the year, for the children required the society of their friends. During those gloomy months, Brandy Hall always was full of the noise and pranks of young folk. Freddy and Estella had largely now recovered from their grief and were resuming their normal routines.

Rosamunda herself continued to stay away a little more than before – not because of Frodo who was in the same circle only infrequently – but because her mood still was not inclined to gossip and gaiety. When she did see Frodo, with mixed satisfaction she observed that he had recovered himself admirably. He was courteous and gracious, if a bit more formal. The old bid for her affection was either kept in check or no longer felt. Perhaps he had found someone who had drawn his attention at last. And that was a good thing, was it not?

_x x x_

_1399, Summer_ _- Hobbiton and Bag End_

The hunting box had after all had been too small and new rooms were dug out. Now there could be a parlour with a kitchen and a bedroom for each of them, as well as an extra room, with the usual chambers behind for stores. The place had been dug into a grassy hill with a copse below it, just off to the side. When it was finished it suited Rosamund very well, especially its quiet. Its south-eastward situation allowed the greatest working light in the mornings, her favourite time of the day. But the prospect of the lands below to the east and south stretching into the distance, when bathed in late afternoon light was also very fine. The Water ran through the land just to the west, mostly narrow and quick just there, coming down out of Long Cleeve and Needlehole before it turned, and turned again, opening wider where it flowed through Hobbiton.

The cottage was only about an hour's walk over the hills from Bag End or Hobbiton beyond. Rosamunda walked far on every fine day, but always toward the north or west. She rarely walked southeast, back towards the village, except for an errand or an appointed visit. She had not forgotten their "understanding." Occasionally Bilbo sent a gift of eggs or ham or fruit in season, to be neighbourly. He knew how to show these small marks of particular notice without making her feel the burden of obligation.

Once installed at the cottage, Rosamunda did continue to come in contact with Frodo at larger gatherings or for big events in summer like the days of Lithe. Sometimes, if she hadn't already returned to Shady Bank for the winter, she would attend the joint birthday party of Bilbo and Frodo on September 22. It always was a big event which Freddy and Estella never missed, if they could help it, even if she had already left. But there was little need at these occasions to be in any close proximity to Frodo. The few times the group was a smaller one, they must interact. But even then, Frodo did not _press_ her. With or without touch, his manner towards her remained warm but restrained, as if to say, "_I am all right, now_." He still might make an affectionate approach on a spontaneous impulse, but he checked himself first. This show of self-command commended itself to her. _You see_? He _was_ growing up and putting all that nonsense aside, she told herself.

In fact, that year she told Frodo he need no longer call her, "Auntie." Already, Bilbo had suggested that Frodo might no longer call him, "Uncle." "Bilbo," now would do. Frodo called him, "Uncle" as often as not, even so. It was too ingrained a habit, now. But following suit, Rosamunda had suggested Frodo might now call her "Rosa," or "Rosamunda." Frodo forgot to drop the "Auntie" at first, but he caught on. "Rosa" it became. But she really did miss the "Auntie," once she no longer heard him say it. She missed the protection it afforded, certainly. The address more distinctly distanced him from her in age and station. But more, she found that the loss of "Auntie" only underscored the loss of their former friendship which both of them had loved so well, with all its affection, freely felt and shown.

She admitted to herself that she did miss his affection. She missed affection generally. In Budgeford, in the home under the trees, when both her children were off visiting their friends, Rosamunda felt a loneliness she could feel down to her bones, especially in the long months of winter with its dreary weather. Freddy continued to be close friends with Merry and was away at the Hall often. Or they went off tramping about the Shire, especially down into the Woody End or towards the Scary hills, not far from Budgeford. Having heard terrible tales from Pansy, Freddy secretly feared the Old Forest beyond Brandy Hall and would not go near it. They never went tramping in there. Estella, whom those two tolerated but largely shunned, had her own friends at the Hall, too. In Tookland, the children's acquaintance was wider still. But they rarely visited there during winter.

For Rosa, the summers in the cottage near Hobbiton were far better. Even if her children were away, the fine weather allowed for the long walks in the open scenery she loved. It had been two years since Odovacar had died and although she had learned to abide his loss, she still very much missed the affectionate intimacy they had so enjoyed together. Well, she must learn to do without. And she _was_ learning.

_x x x_

Bilbo, however, was not so convinced of this ­– that Rosamunda had learned to do without. She had only just turned fifty-four and Frodo almost thirty-one. Too young a widow was never a safe thing. No, that was ungenerous. Why should a few looks or glances still give him pause? Rosamunda had commanded herself admirably. When Bilbo saw her in society, she prattled with other matrons, chatted with their children and seemed to enjoy the conversation of seasoned persons like himself. Her behaviour was quite unexceptionable. She had grown quite careful now, too, as a relatively young and still very comely widow. She was not to be drawn into easy conversation with the husbands of other matrons, Bilbo noticed. There were no more misunderstandings of that sort. For some fellows had tended to take Rosamunda's easy laugh and frank address as an invitation to something more.

Yes, both she and Frodo behaved exactly as he might wish when in each other's company; neither appeared to seek the other out. Very good! Frodo could be seen associating with whichever youths and lasses of his own age might be there. During the past few years Bilbo had been pleased to note, on a number of occasions, Frodo and some young partner stepping out of the midst of a large gathering, only to return looking a bit breathless a short while later. These little adventures did not look as though they required his notice. Bilbo had been compelled to take Frodo aside for a more serious talk the summer previous, at the adamant behest of Adelard Took, who had caught Frodo with his eldest daughter embarking upon an indiscretion. But in the ensuing conversation, while Frodo admitted to taking greater liberties than were permitted, it did not appear to amount to much, when all was said and done. Frodo showed no sign of caring for this Took lass, in any case. But did this necessarily mean that Frodo's affections were previously engaged? No, Bilbo thought. No, indeed.

Yet Bilbo could not help noticing that when Frodo's gaze was averted, Rosamunda's eyes strayed inevitably to his nephew. And he noted Frodo glancing her way as well, when he thought he might be unobserved. Bilbo thought this might easily be put down to a lingering awkwardness between the two. But perhaps, there still was something more. Considering Frodo's continued lack of ardent attachment elsewhere, Bilbo wondered. But he did not speak. Better to let it sit quiet. His questioning might risk kindling inclinations in Frodo that had been successfully put aside. Bilbo would continue to hope they both had overcome it. In the meantime, he would keep his eyes open.

Earlier that summer, however, Bilbo really did see his hopes for Frodo dashed in another quarter. Gandalf first had been by, but then was off again. Directly after, Bilbo received another batch of guests. Back from a few weeks at Great Smials, Frodo was returned in company with the Thain's family. The Tooks would stop in Hobbiton and then continue on to Brandy Hall. It was a bit cramped, but they all could squeeze up for a night or two. Young Pippin, though, at nine years old was a bit of a nuisance. Breakable objects had to be placed higher up. Certainly, Bilbo's study, with its precarious piles and stacks of works in progress, had been securely locked. The Bolgers, now installed at their cottage, of course were invited to dine, especially since Estella and Freddy were well known to the Took girls. Pimpernel and Pervinca, of an age with the Bolger children got on quite well. Pearl, their eldest was vexed at being made to play with the younger children. For the sake of peace, her parents did not press her. At twenty-four she already promised to be the beauty of her generation, almost a throwback to the renowned daughters of the Old Took. But there was one there, Bilbo noticed, towards whom she showed noticeable warmth.

Once Bilbo had seen his guests assembled in one room, it was clear to him that against all hopes, Pearl Took was quite taken with Frodo. This was excellent indeed! It must have been due to Frodo's fair face, for Bilbo could not perceive any other inducement to the lass. Frodo seemed indifferent to her charms and they were formidable. _Was the lad made of stone?_

The Thain, too, kept an eye out – very discreetly – as did Eglantine, his wife. They must have been apprised of Adelard's heated accusations of Frodo's indiscretions the previous summer. Adelard's accusations might even have fanned their hopes. For a match between these two families must be a very desirable thing.

Once only during the evening did Bilbo notice Rosamunda observing Pearl, but her look was one of admiration. So he was eased in that quarter.

After they had supped well, since the weather was very fine, they all went outside to enjoy the long evening. The children scattered into the dusk, joined by some of the Gamgee children from down the Row. Bilbo noticed Pearl following Frodo at a discreet distance as he rounded the corner, disappearing behind the outbuildings down the lane. This looked promising, Bilbo thought.

The adults, gathered in and around the gardens of Bag End turned their attention to their own conversations, casting only occasional glances down the Row when they heard their children's voices lifted up. After a time, the dusk beginning to deepen, Rosamunda rose to leave. Calling for her children, she paid her respects and they all departed for their new home. It was a longish walk.

None that remained realized it how late it had grown – the early summer twilight stretching on as it did – when there echoed up the hill a burst of noise: young voices rose in yelps of laughter and indecipherable shouts and protestations. Pippin was the first one up the hill, panting and filthy, but sobbing. Pearl chased him up the hill and caught him, giving him a pounding in full view of all and sundry. The Thain put a quick end to that and both were sent to their rooms to clean themselves up and go straight to bed. The rest straggled up after. Frodo looked uncharacteristically restrained, Bilbo thought, even sullen.

The next morning the Tooks departed. Pearl did not look at Frodo and Frodo did not look at her. Pippin managed to convey looks that combined both glee and a sense of deep personal injury. But neither the Thain nor his wife imparted anything to Bilbo, who was left in the dark. The next day Frodo was quite unforthcoming about what might have happened, but it seemed clear he was happy to see the backs of all the Tooks.

The Tooks stopped over again at Bag End on their return journey, but Pearl's behaviour remained pointedly indifferent towards his nephew. Frodo presented a comparably disinterested countenance to her. The Tooks' and Bilbo's glances met. _Well, nothing doing_, those glances seemed to say, and they shrugged their shoulders.

_x x x_


	4. Revelations of a Summer’s Night

_1400, June 22 – 24: Lithe, the festival of Mid-year_- _Hobbiton_

The high feast days of summer were a favourite time of celebration all over the Shire. The crops were sown and coming on, but the heavy work of the harvest was still far off. The cool of spring had turned to warm, but it was not yet overly hot. It was a time to breathe and be refreshed and appreciate the summer at its fairest.

This year Freddy begged for – and was granted – permission to go early into Buckland. The Master of the Hall presided over every major feast and Merry, as the future Master, must be at his side. Likewise Estella, not to be cheated of a privilege granted to her brother, went early to Great Smials, to be there with Pervinca. Her father, as the Thain, also oversaw these feast days personally. Rosamunda stayed behind, so that neither child could say the other was preferred. Bilbo, as Master of Bag End, also had a hand in preparing for the festival in Hobbiton, though he did not take as active a part as he once had done. But he liked to meddle with the planning, as well as opening the feast which was his due.

For three days there were games, feasting and opportunities for leisurely talk, napping and strolling. The soft evenings brought more of the usual entertainments. The Party Field and its environs were filled with folk of every age, with farmers in from the outlying areas, plus the guests of local families. Lanterns were strung between the trees, but the sound of insects grew loud whenever a guest moved away from the central areas into the dark where night began. Children zigged and zagged through the celebration well past their bed times, jostling adults as they played their games of hide and chase. Wine flowed, ale slopped out of swaying mugs onto the grass and trays of food were loaded and threaded through the milling crowd. Young couples could be glimpsed in the shadowy places, indulging in a kiss and a squeeze, punctuated by smacks and giggles.

On the green under the strings of lanterns, the dancing was under way and had been every day. Dancing was extremely popular in the Shire among folk of every age. To provide ample opportunity, tradition had developed dances for everyone. There were dances forindeterminate partners stretched in lines or circles, as well as many dances for two. There were dances for children, for parents and children, for under-age youth, for single persons above the age of majority, for lasses and women and for lads and men.

The last of the feast days, the day after Mid-year, had come. Rosamunda had danced with the lasses and women, which she had enjoyed. And although she tried to force herself not to look, she could not help watching Frodo in the one for men and lads. He was as tall as any of them now. Still one year shy of his coming of age, Frodo at thirty-two was yet eligible to dance in the youth dances, which he did with many of the local girls. He seemed quite grown up to Rosamunda, squiring his partners about the green. He was light on his feet, but more, he danced with open pleasure. She had missed seeing him in such dances tonight.

But now, sets of dances for couples had started. First were the dances for husbands and wives or those already betrothed. Rosamunda stood watching, feeling every bit the widow – wistful, even sad – her time to dance so early over. She and Odovacar had loved to whirl about the floor in these. She stood aside with others under the trees, watching while the dusty ground swirled and bobbed with those who were married or courting. The next sets would be for those of age, but yet single. These dances were most watched, as folk would whisper and conjecture about which couplings on the floor before them might portend a coupling elsewhere in the future.

Bilbo hallooed Rosamunda and strode up to her, looking very natty in spite of his age, the colour in his cheeks blooming, with a small mug in each hand.

"Ale?" she asked.

"No, Old Winyards, pretending to be ale," he winked. They drained them off.

"I have come to make you an offer, Rosa. Come; give an old man a dance!" His eye twinkled as he offered her his arm. "Will you have me?" His manner was so very warm, so expansive, and the twinkle so lively, she forgot to wonder if he merely was feeling sorry for her. She accepted with grace. Bilbo handed off the mugs and they stepped out upon the dancing green which now was brown, more like an earthen floor. It had been laid nearly bare from the beating many dancing feet had given it for the three days of the feast.

Rosamunda felt self-conscious at first. But once everyone around them had finished looking their fill in order to note who it was the old Squire was partnering, their attention returned to their drinks or to others. Then Rosamunda really began to enjoy the evening. No one would take it amiss if she danced with Bilbo, now one hundred and ten, though he still looked full of vigour. Bilbo was quite good, too! They danced the second.

The next set was for 'tweens and the pace was much more brisk. Round and round they went, Frodo in their midst.

Rosamunda was not watching, however, having gone to fetch some drinks, their mugs having wandered off. Bilbo apologized for not getting them himself but she had laughed, "Pish! No ceremony between us two!" When she returned they clinked and drained them off, thirsty from their exertion.

The next dance was another of the sort they could join, and Bilbo led her out. Rosamunda was in high spirits indeed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling when she laughed, which she did often from sheer exhilaration as much as from Bilbo's jokes. Her hair was coming down as usual, too, which only enhanced her sort of easy charm. In between his jests, Bilbo watched her with frank admiration. Yes, she still was a very fine looking hobbit woman and made a good armful. It was a shame, really, to see it all go to waste. She made him feel quite – well, it didn't bear thinking about – those days were past. But some others were thinking about it, he noted. Ponto and Porto Baggins, just over there, had been boys with Rosamunda and had followed her about as a lass like dogs, but she had sent them packing. If they continued to look at Rosamunda like that, Bilbo thought, their wives were sure to drag them off for a scolding soon enough! And there was young Hugo Goodbody, who'd do well to stop his gawking. He should take himself off and make some effort towards self-restraint – or else button his coat – the silly ass.

Standing beside his two Boffin friends, Folco and his younger brother, Frodo laughed and bantered, turned in part away. At some word from them he turned and seeing Bilbo, waved. Seeing Bilbo's partner, he faltered – the gesture quite forgotten. Bilbo might have disappeared, the way he looked his fill, watching Rosamunda as she danced.

Bilbo twirled Rosamunda around one last time and the set ended to applause, the dancers all a bit breathless. Was he up for one more go, he thought? Not wind enough, he acknowledged. His eternal vigour was not _that _eternal. He wanted to sit down.

Bilbo began to lead Rosamunda from the floor but hesitated – the next dance would be Mothers and Sons. That would do quite well indeed. Yes.

He would try it, and see what he might see.

"Frodo! Frodo!" Frodo had been turning away again but checked himself and moved in their direction.

The musicians re-tuned. Mothers and mothers-in-law and sons of every combination and age were assembling on the dusty green, finding their places. Bilbo, still holding Rosamunda's hand aloft, said to her, once Frodo was before them: "No, no! You shall not be cheated of one more dance, Rosamunda! Shall she, Frodo?"

Frodo did not know what to make of this but waited politely, glancing only slightly at Rosamunda. "No, indeed!" Bilbo plunged on. "Here is just the thing. Rosa was like a mother to you once; that should count for something, eh, Frodo, my lad?" Bilbo chortled. "Rosa! You would not refuse my heir?"

Bilbo briskly turned, leaving Rosamunda's hand suspended in the air. Catching her swift expression of dismay, Frodo bowed and quickly took it, leading her to an open place. "Thank you," was all she said, forming what she hoped would seem a gracious smile. Frodo returned hers briefly as they waited for the start.

The dance for mothers and sons was a courtly dance and slow, chosen so that both young mothers with little sons and grown sons with aged mothers might be able to join in. Rosamunda had been pulled and yanked by Freddy through this dance many times in Buckland. Frodo must have danced it with his mother there, too, though Rosamunda could not remember it. But she had seen his Aunt Esmeralda lead him through it, so that he might not be excluded, when Merry had been too young to manage it himself.

The dancers stood in pairs, side by side, hands joined over a gap of space. When all were ready, the music struck up and the dance proceeded very grave and mannerly.

The dance required a pointing of toes, which then were drawn across in front through what now was nearly dirt, raising tiny puffs of dust. Steps forward, steps back, a dip and turn, with stately comings together and then partings. A pointed toe, a tap, then scraping lines in zigs and zags. Walk and turn and then reverse, one under the arm of the other, the hands conjoined each time. That way, little sons heading in wrong directions easily could be controlled, and aged dancers could be supported, should they tire even at this measured pace.

Most observers found it dull and wandered off for food or drink, until something a bit more lively would be struck up. Others stayed, the ones to whom the dancers were known. Bilbo was one of these. He stayed stock still.

Bilbo watched and watching, gave it up. He sighed. There would be no marriage with the Tooks, that much was clear. Well, _not yet_. He must not be discouraged so early in the game!

But as he watched his heir with Rosamunda, Bilbo could not banish from his mind the word: _perfect_. They did not meet each other's eyes, except when needful for the execution of the dance. But the extended arm, the join of hands, the step away and together – Frodo's fingers hover-poised upon his partner's waist as he urged her through the turn and back – all was executed perfectly. There was nothing immodest, no languid lovers' looks. But the sheer want of looks in general hinted much. Bilbo knew them both well enough to watch for little things. Their heightened colour (not from exertion, surely). Nor could it produce the greater rise and fall of chest and breast. Did Bilbo sense or just imagine the quickened pulse in each? The eyes of both were brilliant, but that could be the lanterns' light. But, no: though their eyes met seldom, when they did, it seemed to Bilbo those meetings bore a charge, a spark, which ought not to be there. But it was.

When it ended, the dancers bowed or made a courtesy. The few left watching joined in ragged but appreciative applause. Frodo led Rosamunda off the floor and Bilbo saw them exchange a word, but he could not hear it. Just more courtesies, he supposed. Rosamunda retreated to her place beneath the trees, but Frodo strode away towards the drinks tent. Bilbo followed. It was time for that talk, after all.

_x x x_

He could not find Frodo at first in such a crowd, but walking in the direction of the privies, Bilbo saw his back disappearing under the shadows of the outlying trees. Frodo had halted and stood beyond the edge, where stars were visible overhead. The noise of the feast receded so that crickets and small frogs could be heard out in the fields beyond, chirping rhythmically, making a sound like breathing. Bilbo approached but then held himself back, first judging Frodo's mood. But Frodo seemed transfixed, his face lifted to the night sky. _Watching the stars again_, Bilbo surmised. Well. No time like the present.

"Frodo, my lad!"

"Bilbo!"

"I saw you headed off this way, as I left the privies" (a lie, but Bilbo discounted it). Frodo said nothing. The moon had risen and in its light Bilbo hoped he might be able to judge Frodo's mind and mood a bit better. "Well, you've had some fine dancing tonight!" No response came. "So have I!"

Frodo stared ahead but said, "Why did you have us dance together?" Bilbo thought, _Well, whatever he had been feeling out there, he had kept his wits about him_. But Frodo had ever been a keen observer, a true Baggins.

Bilbo blustered a bit. "Whatever do you mean? You are not telling me, you would not have stood up with your Aunt Rosamunda?"

"She is not my aunt, as you have often said. Nor is she my mother."

_Tread carefully. _Bilbo spoke again: "Well, no. Of course not. Even Rosa could not take the place of your mother."

"That is not what I meant at all!" Frodo's voice had risen as he squared himself off before the elder Baggins. "Only tell me: did you not make me dance with her on purpose?" Bilbo was a bit taken aback by the edge in his heir's voice. His "nephew" had grown up more than he had thought. Well, Bilbo would be plain.

"In fact, my boy, I_ did_ design that the two of you should dance."

Frodo's face registered the bewilderment he felt: _Why?_

Bilbo thought, _May as well just forge ahead_.

"I have noticed – you know that I have noticed, in the past – that your feelings for Rosa were not what they ought to be. At least, not what I thought they should be. I admit that I have hoped to see you throw your cap over the wall and single out some lass. But someone _eligible_. Therefore, _not _Rosa. I had hoped yours was just a lad's passing fancy; in fact, I believed it was. For I have seen improvement – that is – it seemed to me your interests had begun to be directed elsewhere."

Frodo said nothing.

"Well. Tonight, I meant to watch you with her, yes. I still could not be sure. So, I resolved upon my little experiment. Yes, I asked you to dance with Rosa for a purpose. I thought perhaps to see . . . if what I had seen in my kitchen, four years past, was still there or not."

"And what had you seen then?" Frodo almost flung at him. At the sight of Bilbo's face, he tempered his tone and lowered his voice, but continued: "Just another itchy boy?" Bilbo smarted at that, but he had to be honest.

"Well, yes – at first. After all, at your age – "

Frodo began to protest, but then conceded. "Well, it is true I was not much thinking then of Rosa – but more just of what I was doing – but afterward, I knew."

Bilbo let the silence sit.

"Do you care for Rosa, then, Frodo?"

"How can you ask it? Yes! Ever since I was little!"

"I am not talking about when you were little!" Bilbo burst out. The lad was prevaricating. No, it wasn't that. Bilbo rephrased: "I know you care for her like that, my boy. I think you love her." _Well, one more go should do it_, he thought. "I am talking about wanting her. No, I don't mean that either – obviously, you want her."

Frodo's face coloured and took on a look of misery.

"It's perfectly normal, my lad," Bilbo said, using a gentler manner. "You just had it hit you, all of a sudden. I saw it, you know, while you watched her with Odovacar, that night by the fire." Frodo's flush deepened. "You had seen them together so many times, so many years. But suddenly it was different, wasn't it? Because _you _were different."

Frodo turned his head away, but said, "Yes, it was all different. Especially once I had . . . held her. But I did try – I have tried to forget about it, Bilbo. And I am able to do that, when I don't see her. But when I do, it comes back."

"Ah . . . " Bilbo dropped his head towards his chest; his shoulders drooped as well. Frodo said nothing.

"What do you mean to do about it, then?" Bilbo asked, turning back.

"I suppose I shall stay away from her now, since you say I have been – so transparent. And hope she will not think ill of me for long," Frodo said as he paced. "For now she always will be ill at ease, whenever I am around her." Frodo stopped and stared at an image in his mind.

Turning back to his uncle he said, "You should not have made me do it, Bilbo – just to see. You should have cared more for her feelings, at least."

Bilbo kept silent for a moment, gathering his wits before he spoke. There would be no taking back what he might say now.

"But I do care for her feelings, Frodo." Frodo looked up again. Bilbo's face seemed care-worn. "I did not make her dance with you, Frodo, to see what you might feel. I thought I knew that well enough, already – that you wanted her." Bilbo plunged ahead. "I did it, rather, to see whatRosa might feel for _you_."

Frodo's breathing seemed to stop as Bilbo continued. "You see, that day in my kitchen, what I saw – well – it was not just you, Frodo, who seemed very different. So, tonight, I made you dance together, to see if I would see it again."

"To see what? What did you see, Bilbo?"

"I saw . . ." Bilbo paused. It would be disastrous if he had misread it. But no, he had not. "I saw – I _believe_ I saw – that Rosa shares your feelings."

Frodo's face, so often an open book to his uncle was plainly readable now. Importunity had become disbelief. But when Bilbo's mien continued solemn, Frodo's disbelief turned to open wonder. Bilbo almost smiled, but only sighed. _Oh, why had he even bothered with his fine distinctions?_ _The boy was lost. _

Frodo suddenly gathered himself and made to rush away.

"Frodo," Bilbo said, placing a cautionary hand upon his shoulder, "I do not _know_, I only _guess_."

"Then I mean to find out," he said, and walked off across the fields, disappearing into the night.

_x x x_

Bilbo wanted to call him back, but refrained. Frodo would return, at least because Rosamunda still was somewhere at the party. Bilbo had seen her before he had walked off looking for Frodo, retreating under the trees into the shadows.

But when Bilbo returned he found Rosamunda not in the shadows but in the midst of the party itself. Bilbo made his way through the crowd, carefully negotiating between glasses of ruddy wine and mugs of ale held aloft, to her find her laughing with Poppy and Filibert Bolger, a cousin of her husband's and his wife. They were about her age, and appeared to be sharing a great joke. From the corner of her eye Rosamunda saw Bilbo approaching, giving her a meaningful look. She interrupted her pleasantries and moved his way, first making her excuses very warmly, before she went.

_If only she were twenty years younger_, Bilbo thought. Widows seldom remarried, but a younger one still might. _Even ten years younger_. But, no. That was not enough. She'd had Freddy right off the mark, just after she'd come of age. But then it had been five years till the next one. And Estella was . . . what? Fourteen or fifteen, she looked now. For some reason Rosamunda and Odovacar produced no more children after that. Bilbo chuckled as he thought of them together: _and it wasn't for want of trying._ Well, his wishing would not make Rosa any younger, any more than it would himself.

"Rosamunda! What a pleasure that was to dance with you! I feel quite rejuvenated! And it was, perhaps, an even greater pleasure to _watch _you dance!"

She smiled broadly at the first part of Bilbo's exclamation and dropped her head at the second. But, gallant soul that she was, she raised it once again.

"Yes, indeed! You and Frodo looked so well together, don't you know?" Her mouth gaped, but Bilbo tucked her arm in his and propelled her to the outer edges of the Party Field. But Rosamunda would have none of this. She stopped, disengaged her arm and stood before him.

"What is this, Bilbo? What are you thinking of? Indeed I have felt you watching me all night. I thought – at first – it was from friendliness. But when you made us stand up to dance, your gaze felt more like suspicion. I have not enjoyed it! What is it? Do you suspect me still?" Her cheeks had become blotched with colour, even under the dusky brown.

"_Suspect_ you, Rosa? That puts my interest in a rather ugly light, don't you think?"

"I do not know what to think. Is it ugliness you are looking for? Why else should you have done it?"

Bilbo could see her agitation and was sorry for it. He knew she truly loved his heir.

"I did not mean to discomfit you, Rosa, although I see that I did. I am sorry. But I had to know something."

Rosamunda allowed her arm to be taken once again and strode with Bilbo to the perimeter of the party grounds. Once out of common earshot, she did not wait for him to start.

"What did you want to know so badly that you would so embarrass your nephew – and embarrass me?"

"He is not my nephew – though he still calls me 'Uncle' with a nephew's love." Bilbo took her wrist and said, "Many years has he called _you_ 'Auntie,' Rosa. But he is not your nephew, either."

She did not speak, but shook her hand free and turned away. Bilbo gave yet another sigh; too many for one evening, at his age.

"Rosa, he has grown up on us, whether we would have it so or not. In one more year, Frodo will be of age, and an adult. But already he is one, apart from the formality."

Rosamunda turned to him again and looked him in the eye, uncertain what Bilbo might be tending toward.

Bilbo pressed on. "Frodo is – Frodo is a good lad. He knows what is expected of him. He knows what he ought to do."

"I have never disagreed with you, Bilbo, on what Frodo ought to do."

"That is well said. But, Rosa – I do not mean this ill – what if he should want to do what he ought not? What if he persists in something which is not in his own best interests?" She did not speak, but waited.

"Rosa, if I am not mistaken, Frodo will be coming to you, tonight. I – I have not opposed it. For I believe, now, that it would be a vain effort." Rosamunda had opened her mouth to speak, but Bilbo raised his hand against what she might say. He first must finish. "I am merely being mindful of his well-being. Especially, since I am getting on. I wanted to think of him as settled – or feel that he might be in the years to follow – once I am gone."

Seeing the alarm that swept her open face, Bilbo assured her, smiling: "No, no! I am not _dying_. But I am not young, Rosa. Sometimes I may even fool myself, but it is not so. I know I shall not be here much longer."

Rosa still did not speak.

"Well, I cannot read your mind, Rosamunda, but I hope you will be careful. I love Frodo, you know.

"And I do not?"

"I know you have loved him. As a child. But this is different now, is it not?"

Rosamunda hung her head.

"I wish you very happy," Bilbo said, pressing her hand between his. But sadness was perceptible in his felicitation. He began to walk away, but turned.

"You cannot keep him, Rosamunda. Nor can he keep you."

"I know that," she said. "Anyway, time will take me soon enough."

_x x x_


	5. The Girding of Loins

_1400 _–_ The ending of Lithe - The Party Field_

The festivities were winding down and most families with very young children had gone home long before. The last revellers were in various stages of drunkenness, tending toward remorse or fond nostalgia. "In which stage am I?" Bilbo thought, but dismissed it. He was in no mood for such musings.

He saw Rosamunda pulling her wrap about her, in preparation for her homeward walk. He did not like to think of her going the full hour home alone, with so much on her mind. At the same moment, he saw Frodo emerging from the edges of the night world, apparently finished with his private meanderings. Well, here he went.

"Frodo!" Frodo heard and looked around. "Frodo! Over here!" Frodo saw him then. "Let us, we two, accompany Rosamunda home. It is late and who knows what villains are abroad!"

Frodo came up to them both but he was looking at Bilbo when he said, levelly, "There are no villains abroad – that I know of."

Bilbo quailed just a bit, but pressed ahead. "Good! Let us keep it that way. Won't you join us?"

Frodo looked at Bilbo closely, unsure what the old hobbit was up to this time.

Bilbo pressed on. "The moon is rising, the night is mild. It will be a good way to walk off too much wine."

Frodo did not say that he had no need to walk off any drink. He stole a look at Rosamunda who had said nothing. She felt his glance and looked up, but immediately shifted her gaze to Bilbo's.

"I shan't argue," she said. "I should like the company."

The three of them walked together in the homeward way, but when they came to narrow places, Bilbo lagged behind. They had not gone far up the Row when Bilbo really did feel the weight of the evening settle down upon him. He was truly tired. He would not walk to Rosa's cottage, no. They never would believe he had not planned it, but there was nothing else for it.

"Rosa, Frodo, I must decline the walk, I think. I am not – " Bilbo heaved a sigh. "Well, really I am suddenly quite tired." And so he truly looked. Rosamunda showed her swift concern; Frodo, too. "No, no. I am well. It is just Time, I am afraid. Catching up even to me. Ha, ha!"

But even Bilbo's chuckle sounded a bit feeble. He stopped and turned to them. "You two go on. No, I insist."

Before they could protest, he shouted, "Samwise!" The last of the Gamgees were trailing off the grounds behind them when Bilbo hailed the master gardener's youngest son, whom he held in warm regard. Sam came trotting up, a lad just entering his 'tweens. "Sam, Master Frodo here must see Mistress Rosa home. Help an old hobbit up the hill, will you? These two think I cannot make it on my own! No, you need not take my arm, lad! But you may lead the way!"

Turning to them one last time Bilbo smiled, almost tenderly, and bid them both good night.

_x x x_

On the cart track, having climbed up and over the Bag End hill, Frodo and Rosamunda were silent. It was enough to hear the sounds of night as the last noises from the Party Field faded away. The edges of the sky were speckled with stars where the risen moon, not yet full, did not obscure them. Its light was sufficient and they needed no other to stay on the path before them. A breeze freshened and shook the grasses of the ancient grazing land that rolled into the west country under the climbing moon, but the air it stirred was mild. Frodo walked a bit ahead, his hands clasped behind him, his head tipped forward as if in thought. Nearly home, Rosamunda spoke.

"Do you think that Bilbo is all right?" The face Frodo turned toward her was full of concern. He seemed grateful to speak.

"I am not sure. I think so. The truth is, he always seems the same to me, although I know he's old. But he has been different lately. Not ill, really. But – I don't know. More testy, more irritable. Not towards me, I do not mean. Perhaps 'restless' would describe it better. He seems – uneasy in his mind."

Frodo continued with his train of thought. "It has been like this, I think, since Gandalf last was here. I do not think it is illness. Though he did look very tired tonight. But perhaps that was disappointment."

"Disappointment?" Rosa asked, as they ascended the next rolling hill of hissing grasses, waving silvered in the growing light.

They continued up to its crest and stopped. The breeze dropped and the grasses stilled. Cricket noises once again could be heard, along with the song of frogs in remnants of the little sloughs. In the dark, a hummock up ahead stood out from those around it, pocked with darker places: Rosa's cottage. A small gust lifted their hair as they stood on the top of the crest and stared at the darkened cottage in the distance.

"Bilbo wanted to talk to me tonight about – about his hopes for me. I think he was . . . disappointed."

She waited for him to continue.

"He wanted to know how I felt about . . . certain things. And I think my answers were not what he wanted to hear." Rosamunda could hear no crickets now, only the grasses sighing.

"How you felt about what?" she heard herself venture.

Frodo dropped his head, but she could see little muscles tug and pull in his neck and the side of his face as he wrestled with his thoughts. Staring ahead, he forced himself to speak.

"How I felt about you, Rosa. Bilbo said he could see it – how I felt."

She let it sit.

"But Bilbo said – he said, he thought he saw something like it in you."

She hoped he did not perceive her start.

"But, he said, he was not absolutely sure."

Rosamunda was full of every sort of feeling, but could not make herself look at him. Frodo had continued, saying something more, but she did not hear it. He turned and stood before her – she must say something. He would take it very ill, if she said nothing at all. And she could not bear that.

". . . And so I wish to know, Rosa," Frodo was saying: "Has Bilbo seen amiss – or true?"

She ceased herinner arguing and dropped her shoulders, resigned. He deserved her plain answer.

"He – he has seen truly." She looked away.

But her words burst inside Frodo's mind. A core of feeling rose up and up and spread throughout his breast, whether filling him with pain or joy he could not tell. But when she turned her eyes to him again the pain vanished and only joy remained.

Frodo reached out his hand and held it poised between them, waiting. Rosamunda took it.

Hand in hand they walked in silence, down the hill of grass and up again until they gained her little stoop.

"May I come in, Rosa?" Frodo's face, saying this was so open, so ardent and full of bright hope that it took Rosamunda's every effort to reply.

"No," she began. But before she could complete her thought, Frodo's expression rapidly changed to one of dismay. The sight of it filled her with remorse – she should have begun with better words!

"I only meant," she said, touching her fingers to his cheek and offering her warmest smile, "not _tonight._ You may come, but not tonight."

Relief washed over Frodo, restoring every feature to its former sanguine place. But then, all his features rearranged themselves once more.

"But – why _not_ tonight?" he importuned.

She might watch the charming metamorphoses his face presented to her throughout the night but, well, she could not. She smiled and said,

"Perhaps I am not your Auntie, Frodo, but neither am I a girl! I am tired! I see that you are not," she laughed. "But really, it_ is_ very late. Soon I should be yawning, no matter what you might do to me!"

Frodo shivered at the images those words conveyed: _No matter what he might do to her!_

". . . And that would not be courteous nor commendable, I think, in a lover. Would you not agree?" she had continued, her lips curved into such a smile – certainly one that never had been shown to him before.

_In a lover, _she had said! Frodo shivered again. He would risk it.

"Might I not kiss you, then, Rosa, before I go?"

He matched his question with movement, stepping closer. He hovered, poised. He was so close she could hear and feel his breathing. It made her weak. But she marshalled her reserves.

"Tomorrow!" she insisted, stopping his protest. _He really was so very, very lovely._ "If I should kiss you now, you see, you would never go!"

Frodo opened his mouth to declare his honourable intentions but she stopped him with a smile, her palm against his breast, her eyes grown very dark. She laughed, then said, "Silly! I meant, if you kissed me now, you would not go – because I should not_ let_ you!"

Frodo could have cried out for joy! He seized the palm upon his breast and pressed its centre to his mouth, just as he had wanted to ever since he saw Odovacar do the same, years ago, before the Bag End hearth. The tremor this sent through Rosamunda, Frodo could clearly sense. He took another step but she stepped back against the door, as if to steady herself. In fact, his kiss had ignited memories of kisses past, now mingling with the promise of kisses to come.

Breathless, she told him, "Go, now," but smiled, her eyes brilliant. "But come tomorrow, when you are free."

"In the night?" Frodo had never made such an assignation before. He thought it might be good to check.

"Yes! – No. Not the night. Before that." She sighed happily, "I should not want to wait that long!"

The import of these words, and their being said in such a manner, filled Frodo with a fever of happiness.

They exchanged one last look then said goodnight.

_x x x_

Only at Frodo's own doorstep did Rosamunda's image leave his mind. For then he remembered:_ Bilbo! _Frodo had quite forgotten about Bilbo and his weak spell. He would just check and see how Bilbo did. Frodo crept in through the front door of Bag End. Inside, the place stood in darkness, except for the parlour. Light, as if from guttering candles, sent flickers and shadows shifting across the hallway floor. Frodo poked his head around and looked. Bilbo was settled in his chair, snoring lightly. Frodo relaxed into a feeling of relief. Yes, he was all right. A few volumes were spread on the floor and one lay opened on his uncle's lap.

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo snorted and looked up. Awakening, the expressions on his face at the sight of Frodo changed from one to another.

"You are back already!" Bilbo's fuzzy smile vanished and concern took its place. "Ah! I see I was wrong, then."

Frodo commanded his face into neutrality.

"I am sorry, lad. She would not have you, then?"

Frodo was defeated. A smirk peeped out – which became a grin – then broke into peals of joyous laughter.

"She says, 'Tomorrow,' Bilbo! I'm to come to her tomorrow!" He felt almost tipsy with happiness.

Bilbo heaved himself up from his chair and clapped Frodo on the shoulder. He smiled and said, "Come on, then, Frodo, my lad. Let's feed you up, starting right now. I could do with something myself."

The elder hobbit led the way into the kitchen.

_x x x_

_The day following the end of Lithe, June 25__Bag End_

The next day Frodo had difficulty keeping still. He busied himself with this and that – things that needed doing in an active way. But he could neither read nor write nor sit. Instead, he had done a great deal of pacing and aimless stopping and standing. _Enough of this_, he thought.

He dragged his latest journal out, plus some sheets of blank stock. He had filled many journals since he had come to Bag End. Bilbo had been happy to supply them. Frodo had made some sketches just the week before of water plants and a spotted frog he'd never seen. He would write the texts to go with them. Surely he could do that much.

He spread the journal and sheets on the table in the parlour, sat down and forced himself to work. But when he had finished, the creamy sheets attracted him. He would draw her face, he thought and fetched a stick of charcoal for the purpose.

It was more difficult than Frodo had anticipated. He tried to make the high cheekbones, broad and full. And the eyes – deep and dark and widely set. He tried to make the full mouth – her smile, the pointed chin – but they came out all wrong. It did not look like her at all. He had tried to draw a likeness of Bilbo once. That had not turned out to his satisfaction, either. But Bilbo had taken it and kept it, calling it "a fine effort." Frodo wished later Bilbo had burnt it – it really had been quite poor.

While thinking these thoughts, Frodo had been making circles upon the upper portion of a clean sheet, with circles set within them and smaller ones in those. As he stared at them, they looked to him like targets. But not targets, something else. He smudged off their upper thirds with his thumb. Yes. Now they looked like breasts, or so he hoped –very round and full. But, no – still they looked like targets.

They wanted shading, that was it. Frodo used his middle finger to blur the lines of the lower crescents, then feathered the dark with the edge of his thumb: up, up toward the smaller circles he had made. There, now they looked better; very round indeed. He would darken in the little circles, too.

While Frodo's mind was enthused with his own artistic invention, it was having other effects on him as well. He wanted more than the two breasts, definitely. He took his charcoal and dragged it down, first upon the left and then the right, making an hourglass beneath the partial moons. Yes, that would do very well. First glancing over toward the hall that went to Bilbo's closed study where Bilbo was barricaded, working, he then made a small downward V in the middle of the lower portion of the hourglass. He paused; then with almost trembling fingers, Frodo took the charcoal and drew a line straight up from the bottom of the page till it met the bottom fulcrum of the V, making a Y – then gingerly he lifted the charcoal away. He felt a tiny thrill.

Frodo calmed himself, assessing the Y that he had made, considering what was needed. It was the shading again, he thought. On the legs, too. Lightly he smoothed his finger along the central line towards the V – avoiding the fulcrum just for now – then feathered the charcoal off to either side, creating a better illusion of roundness. He stopped to assess, then did the same along the angled lines that formed the pubic mound. But when he got to the juncture of the Y, he hesitated.

He did not notice his heart was pounding as with the tip of his finger he touched the spot, took a breath and started the smudging – first tentative – but then taking greater satisfaction in the work. Darker and darker the spot became as he slowly rubbed the paper's creamy surface, mesmerized in the repetitive action. His heart began to quiet, soothed now. And lifting his finger away, he looked at what he had made, but with only mixed satisfaction. Absently, he sucked the charcoal off his finger and thumb.

He really had made it much too dark. Surely that couldn't be right. Her fine, crimped hair was more of a light brown on her head; it would have to match, wouldn't it? His did. Frodo was thinking what to draw next, since he really had no further images to supply from experience or reasonable conjecture, when he heard a voice break through his contemplation, quite close:

". . . And so, I just let myself in, Mr. Frodo, sir. I just wanted to tell you I'm off for – "

Samwise Gamgee was right behind him! Frodo bolted up in his chair, barking the bone of his hip on the table edge. He had made a big smear across the sheet, too. _The sheet!_ Swiftly Frodo slid it under the open journal's edge. Had the lad seen anything? Frodo swerved around.

Young Samwise said nothing, but his face flamed, red as any beetroot.

Frodo wished Sam a good dinner, although he was unable to look him in the eye as he did so. The boy backed away and turning, scampered out.

That was enough! Frodo pulled the sheets off the table – first drawing his finger across his last effort one more time. Then screwing it up tight, he wedged it under the parlour grate. It had not been a true likeness anyway.

Dinner! That sounded good. He had missed his tea altogether. Putting his journal away, Frodo marched himself into the kitchen and began to prepare a meal.

Bilbo had been closeted most of the day in his study, tackling the next section in his book on Dwarvish customs in the Second Age. He had popped out for his elevenses, so Frodo had seen him then. But later, having taken in a substantial tray from luncheon he had been well fortified and able to wait till dinner before emerging once again. Bilbo was happy to see that Frodo had gone ahead and started putting something together. He joined in the preparations but said little to his nephew, merely humming an old song under his breath.

They did not say very much as they ate. A simple but ample cold spread, supplemented with a bit of fruit and a tart for afters made their meal. Frodo especially had felt the need of it. Satisfied, Bilbo blotted the corners of his mouth in a series of neat little pats. Frodo began to push his chair away when Bilbo stayed him with his hand.

"Are you off, then?"

"Where?"

Bilbo waved his hand in the air in a north-westerly direction. "_You_ know . . ."

Frodo flashed a grin, which just as quickly vanished as he worried the edges of his napkin, his elbows on the table. "No, I don't think it is time yet, Uncle. I do not want to arrive there when she might not be ready."

"What time is Rosa expecting you?"

"Well, I am not sure, actually." Frodo fidgeted in his chair while he picked up and then put down the little bits of ham still rimming the plate. "First she said that I should come tomorrow, that is, today, when I was free. So I said, 'in the night?' She said yes, 'the night.' But then she changed her mind and said, 'come before.' But how much before is 'before?'"

"Women can be imprecise in saying what they mean, Frodo. But they usually know what they _want_, in my experience. Did she give you _no_ other indication of her desires?"

_Her desires . . ._ Under Bilbo's solicitous scrutiny Frodo felt the heat rise up his neck.

Bilbo tried not to smile as saw the colour stain his cheeks. _Ah, this blushing was ever the bane of a fair complexion! _

"Well," Frodo said, looking sidelong at his uncle, the corners of his mouth creeping up, "She said I wasn't to wait till night because" – Frodo dipped his head to hide his grin – "she did not want to wait that long."

Bilbo suppressed a look of amazement, but permitted himself his own grin.

"Well, Frodo! Then what are you waiting for? If she said _that_, you don't need a clock to tell what time she means."

Bilbo had risen and brought his hands together in a clap before adding, "You are not nervous are you, lad? You will never get a fairer offer than that. Go! Get yourself tidied up. You did wash, didn't you? Women can be finicky. No? I thought as much. Well, you go see to that. You don't want your ears tasting like the cellar floor," Bilbo could not refrain from adding, suppressing a snort after seeing characteristic redness flood those ears once again at that remark. _It was almost worth it_, he snickered to himself – _just to see such results_.

"Go on, then!" he shouted, "I'll clear."

Frodo was already down the hall when Bilbo almost barked out yet another laugh, but then quickly suppressed it. He shouldn't make light of it, no. He should not be pleased about it, either. Here the day had come. Frodo and his first lass! Well, probably his first. Though, not a _lass_.

Bilbo's brow furrowed again, thinking of the extreme happiness on his nephew's face. Well, maybe she would be just the thing Frodo would need, once he was gone. That thought put the whole affair in a more positive light. Yes, it might be a good thing, after all. And it was not as though it would go on forever, in any case.

Back in his own bedroom Frodo had begun to ready himself for – for _what?_ His ordeal? Adventure? _Debacle_? No, it could not be that – he was getting ready for Rosa!

_x x x_

_Early evening, the same day_- _To Rosamunda's cottage_

Bilbo saw his nephew off, giving a little wave to wish him luck. He rummaged in his memories and found his own first time, a haystack affair. Pleasant, but soon over and forgot. This, he was afraid (yet, also pleased, he admitted in his heart), would not be like that. He watched Frodo leap the gate and scramble up the bank. Bilbo shouted, "Now don't get in a _sweat_, Frodo! You'll spoil all that tidying you've done!"

Grin answered grin, and the lad was gone.

Past the fields, the roll of grass and hill looked different to Frodo in the light as he sought to moderate his pace. The wind was light – the grasses hissed and sighed – but only softly.

The late sun, not quite shining in his face as he followed the north-westerly track, brilliantly illuminated every eastward-rising slope and left the downward sides in shadow. The whole expanse of it: slopes and dips, risings and fallings – the land itself filled his mind with thoughts of Rosamunda. The sight of peaked places that dropped and angled into little clefts; the sloughs between the hillocks, still wet before the highest summer dried them, spiked with swaying water plants that rooted in humid hidden places: Ah, it was all too much! Everything reminded him of her – and of having her. He wanted to throw himself down then and there, as if he could take what he wanted from the land itself.

This would never do, he thought, perspiration springing on his upper lip and trickling down his back. There, now he was going to spoil all his preparations. He scanned the horizon and saw no one. He could take his shirt off. Then he would not make it sweaty. He carried his waistcoat and shirt in each hand, waving the shirt about to dry it while he trudged along. The light breeze soothed over his hot skin and he soon felt refreshed. But his mind did not relent and pictures filled it. Frodo did not see the land about him anymore, but only imagined skin and limbs and secret places.

But what could he imagine? For all the time he had spent imagining what Rosamunda might look like, he really did not know. But he had spent a good deal of time guessing, he admitted to himself. Still, his store of images was limited.

The wind had risen just a bit, chilling him. He put his things back on as he walked and thought.

He had seen leg; he almost had seen higher. And Pearl Took had let him see her breasts. He had not been interested in Pearl, but could not refuse her offer, so opportune as it was. They had been smaller than he had hoped, but exceedingly pretty and pointed. She clearly would agree, preening and angling them this way and that as much for her own admiration as for his. But Pippin had put an end to whatever else Frodo might have seen, springing from the bushes with his childish sing-song rhyme. But he had not seen a female body all over. Well, he had – but it had been too far away to be very satisfying.

In Buckland, along the Brandywine below the Hall there were bathing spots, assigned by custom to be used by only one sex or the other. Little children might bathe in the shallows at the bottom of the lawns, but none who were older. Although it was forbidden, most lads did their best to have a peek in spite of every parental admonition. Frodo himself had led a small foray through the tangled undergrowth that provided the screen for the girl's area.

Crawling on their bellies, their snickers mixed with "Ow!"s – quickly stifled – they had gained a partial distant view of the young bathers standing in the river. But not for long. A snapped twig, a burst of mirth and up their quarry flew! Well, no; rather it went under. Under they plunged with shrieks (and not a few giggles), water frothing everywhere. The alarm had been raised! The maidservants, whom the lads had dismissed as lazy sentinels lost in chat beneath the trees, were up and stormed the bank where they were hidden. They barely got away in time to escape identification. But when they arrived back panting to the Hall, their dishevelled appearance – scratched and dirt-stained – marked them as the perpetrators. All were properly punished and the sentinels chatted no more. There would be no more peeks for many years to come.

But Frodo knew that whatever Rosamunda looked like, it would bear little resemblance to these younger girls. The clothes she wore were always modest, but however she was covered, the ample forms that her clothing concealed were yet very evident to Frodo. The open throat, though the collar was high, made an arrow, ever leading his eyes down into conjectures as to what might lie beneath. Rosa abjured the use of stays at home and at the table, when she leaned into her work, a sort of subtle swing and sway implied a heft that Frodo longed to test. He thought for the thousandth time of when he had held her in his arms, his hands just there and there. If only he had moved them higher, lower! Ah, and when he thought of the feel of her hips pressed right up against him – so round, so full, so soft and yet so springy at the same time – he could not ride in a pony trap afterwards and watch the sway of the hips of the mare that drew it. He would become quite transported by mental pictures of other hips . . . swinging and swaying, his own body pressing and parting and opening and –

Without ever noticing, Frodo found he was on the crest of the last hill and the cottage was just before him. But he was in such a state! It would not do at all. He could not go in there, not like this! He must act. Scanning the horizon once again – but who would be out there, after all? Frodo threw himself down in the grass on the shadowed side of the slope, determined to relieve himself immediately. He knew from experience that in his condition it would only take a moment. Remembering his clothes before it was too late, he pulled himself free and rolled to the side.

Rolling onto his back and panting, Frodo gazed up at the sky he had not noticed, while his heart subsided and his breathing was restored to normal. It was blue at the zenith, but already the east was deepening into indigo. A few stars twinkled there, almost imperceptible. In the west, the sun was sinking. Soon it would disappear behind the distant White Downs and the Tower Hills somewhere far beyond them, before it sank into the Sea he'd never seen. The western sky was suffused with pinks and golds and rose . . . _and rose!_

Rosa! Frodo leapt back up and tidied himself, wiping his fingers in the grass. He checked for any telltale stains upon his clothes. He did not wish any additional mortification. _Mortification._

He now was seized with sudden apprehension. A meeting so long imagined and desired - and now he was almost fearful. He regained the crest and stood. Looking at the cottage once again, he saw the door standing open. Frodo mastered his panic and descended. Rosa would be waiting!

_x x x_


	6. Stepping Over the Threshold

_The evening of the same day, June 25, Afterlithe_ - _Rosamunda's cottage_

At the open door Frodo faltered, then stopped. His heart began to hammer. Every nerve was thrumming with fearful anticipation. This was ridiculous! What did he think he might see? Myriad possibilities raced through his mind – Rosa angry, Rosa happy, Rosa gone, even Rosa naked – but only for a moment as he forced himself to gain the threshold, looking in at last.

He saw Rosa dressed as usual labouring at her table in the fading light, the windows looking out at limpid indigo and lapis. More light came in through the opened door. Absorbed in the homely tasks beneath her hands she hummed a little and strands of hair, escaped from pins, wafted and drifted with her movements as she worked. Her hands and forearms, golden-browned, were dusted and speckled with flour. Hearing him, she turned; she saw his face and smiled. Seeing that smile, every fear he had was drained away.

But not the rest – the part that wasn't fear. His heart still beat far too fast and his skin prickled all over. But Frodo schooled himself and came to stand beside her. He definitely was taller than she, now, yes. From just behind her shoulder he gazed at her hands at work, the hands he loved to watch, but not before lingering over the swell of her bodice. He noted the tiny jump of pulse beneath her skin at the angle of her throat.

"Would you like to help?" she asked, as she covered bread now cooled and bared a rind of cheese to cut.

Frodo, gulping a big breath of air, reached to take a knife but checked himself, glancing at his hand – it was still stained with bruised grass. "I think I had better wash, first," he said. Her face was turned to her task so she did not see his colour bloom then quickly fade again.

"On the stove, the big kettle," she said over her shoulder. Next to the stove was a long sideboard with a basin standing ready, a stack of linens, a bar of soap and a flagon of oil for the skin. He poured some steaming water then added cold. Laving his fingers, sliding them, slipping them, in and out, crossing and twining . . . even that was too much for him! Frodo dashed some cold water on his face and neck. His bath was coming to nothing, he feared.

"Come on, then!" he heard her laugh. When he turned he saw her there, leaning her weight into the cut – the cheese was very firm – he noted how the back of her skirts curved out before the fabric dropped again as she leaned into her work.

"Well?" she said, glancing over her shoulder.

This would never do. Frodo resolved to get a better grip.

"Cut this loaf, would you? Then cover it."

He did so, making very even slices, for the discipline.

"Are you hungry, Frodo? I thought I would make us something to eat. It was too difficult to just sit and fret, thinking about this. It was better, once I was busy."

Had she been nervous, too? Frodo had never even wondered whether she might be. "Actually, I did just have my tea with Bilbo, before I left."

She threw her head back and laughed, spooning jam from a crock to a bowl. "Well, so did I! But I have been snacking ever since," she said, popping the spoon into her mouth. Withdrawing it, she gave her burnished lips an appreciative smack. She caught his look, riveted on the spoon still poised in her lifted hand. She grinned, with a wicked twinkle in her eye and said, "But, we might be hungry, later."

Frodo wanted to fall upon her right then and there but she deflected him saying, "Lay these slices on a plate. Now, I think – yes – a round of butter, and that will be that."

The simple foods prepared and covered, Rosamunda turned and leaned her hip upon the table edge, drawing the back of her hand across her cheek to push away escaping hair.

Frodo edged closer.

She looked at him and swallowed hard, dropping her eyes to the back of her hand held out before her. It was white with flour.

White on brown, Frodo saw.

"Is my face all floury, then?" she managed to say.

Indeed, there was a smear of white across her cheekbone, angling up to her temple. "Here, I can get it, Rosa," he said, reflexively licking his thumb, then drawing it across the mark, erasing it under his touch.

The shudder that moved through her, so close, was absolutely unmistakable. Frodo pulled her to him at last. As he kissed her, he felt that although it was unlike anything he had ever felt, it was completely familiar – and he let himself fall into that familiarity – like a deep, bottomless featherbed.

So engrossed were they neither of them noticed they were leaning, nearly toppling; only the clatter and rattle of dishes and cutlery alerted them up before they fell. Rosamunda's hair was tumbled down and quite askew, her bodice lifting in heaves, her already dark eyes turned to glossy jet. Frodo could not know his own appearance mirrored hers: dark-eyed with cheeks blazing and lips stung full, his skin shimmering with damp. Frodo had not even realized he had her skirts rucked up, fumbling with insistent hands to reach at last the nakedness beneath. Rosa clasped his wrist, and panted, "No, Frodo, not like this –" She saw his panic and pulled him to her. With a husky laugh, she said, "I meant, not here – in the bed."

_x x x_

It was all over before Frodo got to see Rosa naked, after all, but at least they had made it to her bedroom. Spent and panting, Frodo was both ecstatic and ashamed. Surely any hobbit woman expected better! He had got his breeches almost off, with her help. His fingers had tangled in the strap of his belt. His waistcoat lay where it had been thrown on the floor but his shirt was still half on, rumpled and crumpled in creases under his armpits. He had got Rosa's bodice unbuttoned part way, but never any further. He would have tried to hold off, really he would have, if she hadn't been so eager herself, urging her skirts aside and pulling him down and down and down. After he had so precipitously consummated his own ardour, she had showered him with kisses and wrapped her legs about his own. He had barely been aware of it. But now he thought, _I should have waited._ His remorse, though, was tempered by the absolution received.

Rosamunda, although she had not reached any such extremity herself, did not think such mournful thoughts – not at all – as she lay under Frodo, sprawled upon her breast and neck, recovering his equanimity. The throbbing would subside; it had already. There would be plenty of time ahead, she hoped. No, she knew it: they would have time. When she had been new to lovemaking, Rosamunda had been willing to wait, since she had not known where she was headed. But once she had known what pleasure could be, under the exciting attentions of Odovacar over the years, she had become the more eager of the two, once under way. Odovacar, ever the tease had preferred to drag it out – if only for the pleasure of watching her suffer exquisitely. Over and over. But she was barely willing to wait at all until he should fill her with unutterable joy.

It had been four years since anyone had touched her or kissed her, in an intimate way. Perhaps someone else could have kindled some response. But just a touch from Frodo – Well! She had gone up like tinder.

The sky through the window of her bedroom was a round of purple and blue now, the dusk deepened and the choruses of crickets had stuck up. The gibbous moon was rising, spreading its silver throughout the room. Ah, she was very happy! Frodo's hair under her nose smelled exceedingly nice to her, freshly washed. She found the thought of washing very attractive, in fact. Her dress was damp and sticking to her rather uncomfortably and she would like to feel very much cleaner – if only for later. "Frodo" she whispered, kissing his cheek.

"Mmmm?"

"Get up, love, you're crushing me!" she chuckled. He wasn't really – he must weigh half what Odovacar had. In fact, it felt rather satisfying – the weight of him stretched out upon her.

"Am I?" he asked, concerned, immediately shifting off to the side.

"No, I am joking. I could lie under you all night!"

He gave her his loveliest grin.

"But I am sweaty and sticky and you have plastered my clothes to me thoroughly! I am going to bathe. I will pour some for you, if you would like to as well."

Well! Two baths in one day – Bilbo would be surprised! Frodo snickered at the thought.

"What is so funny, then?" Rosa demanded, seizing him under his ribs with a laugh and making him giggle, for he was ticklish. Frodo tried to pull her down to him, but he was prevented as she pushed her palms against his chest with surprising strength. "Well?"

Frodo confided, "Bilbo told me, before I came, women were finicky about such things. So he insisted I bathe before I left. I was thinking – he would be amazed that his nephew would go under the soap and cloth twice in the same day!"

He dodged a swat with a pillow.

"You and Bilbo had a little heart-to-heart about me, then? You wicked Bagginses! I hope you'll not be giving him an account each time!"

_Each time_. Frodo liked the sound of that.

"Heavens, no!" he assured her. But softened by the picture of the old hobbit waving as he had left, Frodo added, "But he loves me. And in spite of all he has done against this day, he wants to see me happy. I will want him to know that I was – that I am."

Rosamunda with great restraint resisted that face. Taking Frodo's hand, she pulled him to his feet. "Come on, then. Put your trousers back on. We will need a bit more water, I think. There may be enough hot, though, already."

Frodo stood and pulled them up. Holding them together at the waist (bother the buttons) he followed her into the small parlour and kitchen.

"Here you are," she said, swinging up a couple of pails from the floor beside the stove. "The big one is already full. I think these two should do it, in case we should want water later."

Frodo, clutching the waist of his breeches together with one hand, tried to take both handles with the other.

Rosamunda chuckled as she considered his efforts then said, "Oh, there's no one about for miles. Never mind the breeches and go as you are. If someone should see you, your shirt tails will keep you covered enough."

Frodo felt sheepish but laughed, stepping out of the breeches that fell to the floor. Rosamunda scooped them up for a dusting-off and draped them over a chair. He picked up a pail in each hand.

"Straight ahead, then down to the left," she said.

He stopped in the doorway and turned to ask, "Rosa, where's the privy?"

"You'll see it," she smiled, "on the way down to the water, over in the little copse."

And away he went.

She could shout with happiness! But she went back to her task and in the remaining dusky light, took down the wide shallow basin from its hook on the wall and placed it near the stove. The kettle was hissing still, but checking she saw she would need to refill it. To the smaller basin on the sideboard she added a bit more – cold and hot. She patted the towels and turned the soap first one way, then the other. _Bother, _she thought. _Shall I take these things off while he's gone? Or when he comes back? _

For in truth, she felt very nervous about appearing before Frodo naked now that it had come to it. _Better to get it over with_, she resolved. Quickly, she unbuttoned her bodice and peeled it away, then unbuttoned her skirts and stepped out. When she had finished, she tossed the lot in the corner. But now she was chilled and felt goose pimples rise as the breeze blew in through the open door and windows. She would put on her night dress, that was what she would do. In her bedroom it hung on a hook, very white now, in the dim light that stippled everything before her eyes. Slipping it over her head, she heard a noise and then an "Ouch!" – followed by a slosh.

From the moonlit exterior, Frodo came into the darkened house and felt momentarily blinded. There was no light except for a faint glow from the stove.

"I cannot see at all, Rosa. Mightn't we have some light?"

Yes, she supposed she would have to light a lamp or a candle or two. She lit a pair and set them on the table.

Frodo's eyes opened wider at the sight of Rosa in her gown. It did not show much of anything; it was just the idea of it. He was glad he had buttoned his shirt outside, before he had picked up the pails. Following her instructions, he put one on the sideboard and poured the other into the kettle to warm.

Everything they might need was ready at last. Rosamunda seized a lung-full of air and began.

_x x x_

"We could take turns, I suppose. There is no room in the basin for two to stand."

_Two? _He hadn't thought of having a bath together. Frodo said nothing.

She chose to plunge ahead. "Then I shall go first, shall I?"

Frodo looked relieved.

"You may as well sit down, until it is your turn."

He did so, but the chair was chilly under his naked buttocks and thighs. Frodo got up again and pulled the window to.

She thanked him; he sat down.

In an agony of nerves, she ventured, "Frodo?"

"Yes?"

"Now that I am ready, I confess I feel very – awkward – with you sitting there. Would you close your eyes, please? Just till I am used to it?"

Frodo was so surprised he could not speak at first. He had wanted this for so long, it had never occurred to him that Rosa might be ashamed to be seen.

"But – didn't Odovacar see you – all the time?"

"Yes, of course, but you are not he, are you?"

Frodo could see the sense of this and though disappointed, agreed. He closed his eyes.

He heard the whisper of light cloth rustling and slithering over her skin. He had not noticed how the gown had fastened. Had she pulled it over her head? He imagined it catching under the moons of her breasts. Or perhaps she had stepped out of it? That made a nice picture, too – seeing it drop to the floor. Then he heard the sounds of water sloshing and trickling and the squeaky sound of soap being turned in hands, then more sloshing. She must be washing her face, he thought. Then a sloshing followed by a trickle echoing in the bowl, then the sound of soap rubbed into a cloth. The basin on the floor skittered as she stepped into it. _Now she would wash the rest._

"Oh, Rosa!" Frodo cried, unable to contain himself any longer – but with his eyes still squinched shut. "Mayn't I look yet?"

Rosa looked at him, so lovely as he sat there. He had been very patient, really. Well, then.

"Very well," she said, and swallowed hard.

Frodo opened his eyes. After the darkness under his lids the room seemed filled with light. And Rosa, rising up out of the basin in which she stood, was the centre of its blaze. Like a gleaming tower, he thought her! Golden-burnished she was, and browned on her hands and face and down her throat. But the rest, all golden. She was not anything like the lasses he had seen in the Brandywine. They might have been boys in comparison, but for the lack of anything dangling down the front.

She filled his eyes with height and shape and everywhere were hills and valleys and tops of hills. Her arms were round but strong, tapering down into her long-fingered hands. Her legs, too, were long but round, beautiful tapered columns of gold. And her breasts! Not charcoal on paper, but real! Full and ripe they were, as if flowing with dark honey, her nipples standing out like browned berries in the sudden chill.

Following further, irresistibly, Frodo's gloating eyes slid around the dip of her navel and over the round of her belly, down to the thick triangular thatch of golden brown below.

Yes, he thought, he had made the smudge much too dark. But no picture he could ever draw would do her justice!

"Oh, Rosa!" Frodo sighed, truly enraptured. She thought her heart would burst to hear him say it: "I could look at you forever!"

Her nervousness mostly dissipated, she even managed a chuckle and said, "Well, you shall not. I haven't even started, really. And the water will get cold."

She took the cloth and began to wash in earnest. Briskly at first, but under his ardent gaze she relaxed and took greater pleasure in the business. It was too much for Frodo, who sprang up to stand before her.

"Let me, Rosa!"

"I am almost finished, but all right. But no dawdling," she said, her eyes darkening. "We still have to do you, after all."

Frodo grinned, his face hot, and took the cloth.

She had done her arms and breasts, which looked exceedingly polished, up close. So he swallowed first, then started with her flanks. He almost expected the cloth to hiss when it touched her – but that was his own heat, not hers, wasn't it? Her body was wonderful to look at, but better still to touch, even through the cloth. He moved back around to the hill of her belly. Closer up, he could see it was marked with a maze of pearly lines that puckered in their centres, like ribbons.

"What happened there, Rosa?" Frodo asked, looking up.

She threw her head back and laughed, the notes cascading. Frodo was momentarily distracted by the motions this caused in her breasts. Cupping his face between her hands, she gently waggled his head and said, "Freddy and Estella happened, silly!"

Frodo had quite forgotten about Freddy and Estella, in fact.

"Carrying you in our bellies takes its toll, you know!"

It amazed Frodo to think that Estella – and especially Freddy, who was extremely large – had ever been in there. But then he remembered and pictures entered his mind in swift succession of Rosa, big with Estella, when he was still a lad. She had seemed huge to him then, her belly like the prow of a ship. But he had loved it when she let him feel the baby moving inside, his face pressed against her skirts. Frodo's heart overflowed with remembered and present love. He cried, "Ah, Rosa!" and twined his arms about her hips, to press his face there once again.

She stroked his hair until he let her go and stood, commencing the bath once more.

Having finished her belly, he decided it safer to make a detour. Next, he did her legs. But sliding back up to that arrow of tousled fur, Frodo's fingers faltered at the fulcrum.

"I'll do that part," she smirked. "If you go bathing me there, we may never get to yours at all!"

He stood back. He watched her hand and the cloth it held, disappearing and returning from between her thighs – Frodo trembled, just from looking.

"Now, you may do my back," she said, and turned around.

This view only heaped on further coals. Although her legs were long, she was a bit short-waisted and the line from nape to waist – with its curve of spine as it dipped into the small of the back – only offered greater definition to the sweeping, symmetric volutes of her buttocks. Frodo forced his hands to stick to business – there was still his own bath to go (to which he was now looking forward). But he truly could not look upon the shapely curves he could feel under the soapy cloth. Every stroke reminded him of standing behind her, pressed against her skirts. But now there were no skirts.

He poured the water from the ewer, while she rinsed.

"Thank you, Frodo!" Rosa smiled, stepping out and drying off with a towel from the stack. She slipped the gown back over her head.

Frodo's face clearly showed his disappointment.

"I will take it off again, once we are under the covers, but I am chilly now. You do give a lovely bath, Frodo, you know," she said, her cheeks pinking. "But now for you."

Frodo had forgotten his own nervousness, but now it all returned at once – and he would have pulled away – but she already had him by his shirt.

"Now I behaved for you, you must behave for me," Rose admonished him, and the husky tone of her voice relaxed him instantly.

Frodo was willing, then, to be relieved of his shirt without a protest. Only the bottom few buttons were fastened, the ones he had fastened outside. She fiddled with the first, but it was snagged on a thread. The jerking of linen upon him made Frodo hiss through his teeth.

"Oh, bother!" she said, and pulled the whole thing off over his head.

"Oh, Frodo," she said, heaving a sigh which gratified him terribly. "You are – _very_ beautiful."

And he was. She had thought so from the first. But his little-boy body had grown up. The last time she had seen it, Frodo was capering and splashing about with the other children in the Brandywine. Odovacar had held little Freddy by his hands – still too little to swim – swinging him to and fro and trailing his chubby feet through the water, eliciting cascades of mirth. But, now. Oh, for the beauty of him! Still planes and angles and lines, but delineated with lovely swells and dips and modest curves. She looked him in the eye and he returned her level look, but when she let her gaze descend – then rest – the potency of her contemplation called his body, dragged it as if by some magnetic force emitted by her smouldering eyes.

Frodo felt so raw he wanted to beg for mercy. But she let go her gaze and after gulping in a breath or two, to calm herself, she invited him to take his turn. She took the chair this time, trained her hands in her lap and sat. He saw she watched with fervent interest.

She already had poured new hot and cold, after she had tested it. So Frodo washed his face, rinsing over the sideboard basin, smirking as he thought of Bilbo's admonition – his ears were clean enough. He started soaping up his chest and then worked under his arms, while she admired the way each arm looked stretched out in turn – suspended – the hand and wrist angled just so, then dropping and changing.

Frodo stopped midway to look at her – her head was tipped to one side, her lips parted in rapt admiration. He dipped his head, then looked back up at her and showed his pleasure in his smile. She wriggled slightly, Frodo noticed, upon her chair. Emboldened, Frodo held out the cloth.

"You do the rest, please, Rosa."

She rose, a bit unsteady, but took it. Testing it she said, "It needs some soap. This is not nearly enough. You stand in the basin." He did, and held his breath.

She dipped the cloth into the sideboard basin and Frodo turned to watch. She wrung it out – but not too much – so that it was nicely wet, then soaped it up with vigour, back and forth and then the other way again, working up a rich lather. Glancing back at him, she saw his eyes upon the soap and cloth, his pupils wide and dark, the candles burning on the table behind him. She stepped around and began her work, sliding the dripping foamy cloth up and down and across and around. He winced and she noticed a purplish bruise coming up, right on his hipbone. It looked a little painful.

"That looks bad. What happened?" she asked, dabbing the area gingerly.

Frodo coloured, saying gruffly only, "This afternoon. I banged it on the table, getting up."

Then she washed his legs. The bruise was forgotten.

"Pick up your feet," she said, crouching. Frodo steadied himself with one hand on the sideboard as she washed those, too. She stopped.

Looking up at him she said, "The rest . . . do you want to do yourself, or shall I?"

With the light behind her, Frodo thought her eyes looked black.

"What would you rather do, Rosa?" Frodo managed to croak.

She stood up again, tipped her head and smiled a smile that made him weak.

"I will do it."

Frodo trembled as he stood there, beginning to feel cold all over, even though the inside of him was burning up. He could see goose pimples sprouting up everywhere and his small nipples stood erect. She stepped around to the sideboard basin but suddenly put down the cloth – laving up her hands instead. Frodo swallowed hard. He closed his eyes before she touched him.

All his chill vanished and heat washed over him instead at the feel of wetted, soapy hands sliding over his skin. She was patient – but didn't dawdle – stopping only to re-soap her hands as needed. Frodo listened to the sounds it made as she slid and slipped her silken hands over and around and up and down, threading under and between, then slithering back to begin again.

Frodo shivered, then opened his eyes – he had to see it – brown hands, wet-shining and colour-drenched, moving over white. The beauty of it pierced him.

Just when he thought he might lose all control, she had finished. She reached inside the ewer, tested, added cold and then more hot and poured it over him, all around as Frodo, rinsing, gasped for breath.

He stood in the basin, dripping; she handed him a towel. He took it, but handed it back.

"Are you sure?" she smiled, a very saucy twinkle in her eye.

His eye answered hers, sauce for sauce.

He stepped out and she towelled him briskly. Then sitting on her heels, she did his feet. But she had mercy on him _there_, merely blotting, gentle now – the thin towel a modest covering between her hand and him. He leaned his hand gingerly upon the sideboard and watched.

But when she took the towel away – he was so very near – she had to look and looking, sighed, "Ah! Beautiful!"

Frodo sighed, too as she clasped his hips, but gasped when she dropped an adoring, tender kiss. When she took him in her mouth, he quaked and trembled and clutched the sideboard and really almost fainted. Her soapy hands had been wonderful but this was more exquisite still! She held him gently, guiding him in and out in highly gratifying motions. He watched, engrossed in the sight of himself disappearing and reappearing in fascinating succession. But when she did things to him inside her mouth, Frodo had to close his eyes to bear it.

When Frodo thought he could not stand it one more second, he pushed her off and held her there – waiting – while he panted. But the face she showed him was so full of ardour he pulled her up and clasped her to him in a kiss. Just thinking of where her mouth had been filled Frodo with flares of heat and prickling sparks down to his fingertips. And the things she did inside his mouth, mirroring what she'd done elsewhere, made him almost giddy. But Frodo held on and answered her, silk for satin.

Frodo wanted her desperately now, but skin to skin – without the barring cloth between. "Rosa, help me get this off!" he cried, tugging and yanking the delicate stuff.

"Come!" she said between her panting and laughter as she lurched away. "But not on the floor – it hurts!"

Frodo stumbled after her, watching her hitch the white cloth over her head as she ran. He had just grabbed her hips before she tumbled onto the bed before him.

"Get off! Get off!" she laughed, "Let me turn over!"

"No, not yet!" He had wanted to feel himself in just that spot for long enough! She wriggled under him, her legs pinned between his knees. This was more exciting still. He kissed her neck, her back and shoulders, which made her tremble everywhere, sending all her pleasure into him as he fumbled behind her, more from instinct than with expertise.

"Frodo!" She panted between sighs and giggles – her neck was very ticklish – "We might do it this way, but not with my knees pressed together!"

He sprang back, allowing her to position herself, just so.

"Now – there," she said, between her ragged breaths. But the bedroom now was very dark. After a few erring but earnest attempts, Rosa guided him.

But when he'd gained the entrance, Frodo found it so unbearably pleasurable to be so squeezed and held between the gripping muscles there inside (which felt so very different from the other way around), he soon fell over as one struck dead after just a few more strokes.

_x x x_

Rosamunda felt rather squashed beneath him, once she had slid down onto her stomach. But she was so unspeakably happy with her lover she let him lie there, draped over her back and shoulders, until he had recovered the power of speech.

Frodo, remembering where he was more clearly, kissed her shoulder and moaned, "I am sorry, Rosa."

The dear boy!

She extricated herself from beneath him and turning, gathered him close. She stroked his hair and peppered little kisses here and there upon his face and neck.

"Frodo, do not be sorry_. I_ am not. You have made me so happy! What is there to be sorry for?" But he didn't answer.

"Come," she said and rose, taking his hand and giving it a tug. "I am starved! Let's go and eat."

_x x x_


	7. Unveilings

_The night of the same day, June 25 - Rosamunda's cottage_

Swabbed down again and satisfied from their meal, Frodo and Rosamunda lounged under the summer coverlet upon her bed. The room now was softly illuminated, the moon fully risen. Its argent light spilled across the floor, but stopped short of where they lay. She'd lit the stubby candle at her bedside, as it was full night.

Rosa lay on her back, propped up on the piled pillows and Frodo lolled next to her, one leg over hers, which he drew languidly up and down over her skin, just for the feel of it. He rested his cheek upon her shoulder, his arm draped across her ribs as he fingered her hair or drew lazy little designs over her skin as they talked. Her own fingers were threaded loosely through the coils of his hair, still a bit damp, twirling them between her thumb and forefinger into silky little spirals. Her other arm was thrown back upon the pillows behind her.

It was a beautiful night, she thought, and crickets and frogs in the sloughs could be heard making their songs all the way into the room.

"May I ask you something, Rosa?" Frodo asked, still making his designs – but with a few stops and starts for punctuation as he spoke.

"You may ask me what ever you wish! But," she chuckled softly, "I will reserve the privilege of not answering."

Frodo seemed to be silenced by her bantering answer, so Rosamunda turned his face to hers and said again, "You may ask me whatever you wish. Do not be afraid."

Frodo snuggled himself a little closer: "Do you still miss Odovacar?"

Her eyes softened. "Yes. Well, at first, I missed him terribly. But, eventually, I got used to him not being there any more. So, no, I do not miss him – not the way I once did. Time is like that."

Her face darkened but Frodo did not see it, then the look and thought disappeared.

"Do you mind, Rosa – when I ask you about Odovacar?"

"No. I don't. Not really. I did love him . . . but, well, now he has gone."

Frodo hesitated, making obscure figures between her breasts that led back up to her face, until his eyes met hers. "Rosa, have you not missed – doing this?"

Rosamunda clasped his wandering hand and kissed it. "Making love? Yes. Well, I missed it very much, at first. But I got used to it. Not having it."

Frodo slid his arm back over her waist and restored his cheek to her shoulder, sighing mightily, "I don't know how you could have borne it!"

"A very lover-like speech, but it is possible to bear," she smiled. "You do not seem to have been cutting any wanton swath through the Shire, either, that I can tell," she added with a chuckle.

Frodo's head snapped up, "How do you know anything?" But he thought to add a smile, in case he should sound discourteous.

"I have made it my business to know. I have kept my eye on you, Frodo Baggins. What sort of Auntie would I be if I did not?" she chuckled.

"But you are not my Auntie – anymore," Frodo countered gazing softly up at her.

Such a look!

"No, not anymore," Rosamunda agreed, but that look made it difficult for her to speak.

Frodo returned his cheek to its former place. She brushed his other cheek with the back of her hand – _satin_ – while she strove to recall her train of thought. "Well? Have you been with a lass? I mean, like this?"

"No, not like _this_!" he averred with a chuckle of his own. Frodo shifted about and looked up at the ceiling in the near-darkness. "But I have done a good bit of kissing . . . and things, during the summers at the Smials, and other times, in Buckland."

"Hmmm! What 'things?'" Rosamunda pressed, smiling. She guessed he was aching to tell and she wished to hear it, almost forgetting they had just been lovers.

"Well, I did get a bit further with two of my Took cousins."

Frodo was thinking of his cousin Reginard's sisters, at the Smials. There were three of them, close in age, each one very pretty. It had started a few summers before in Afterlithe, when he'd been there for the Mid-year's feast.

"Two! What? Both at once?" Rosamunda bantered softly.

"_No._ Not at once," he turned to protest, but chuckled again when he saw the tenderness in her face. He shifted back and returned his cheek to her shoulder, resuming his circles and loops.

While she waited, Rosamunda re-threaded her fingers through his hair but Frodo's little circles had spiralled onto her breast and ended in a very stimulating pinch. She smacked his hand away. "And? Then, what? What happened at the Smials?" He was making it quite difficult for her to maintain her countenance and sound properly stern.

"Well, to tell the truth, after that time at Bag End – you know – in the kitchen . . . I couldn't stop thinking about it. How it made me feel . . ."

Rosamunda's face flushed but Frodo did not see it, drawing his patterns.

"When I was in Tookland that sort of thing was still on my mind, so I meant to do something about it – if I could. The first summer, there was no one who suited – whom I suited – if you know what I mean," he said, punctuating his doodles with a few kneads and strokes.

Rosamunda ever so lightly tightened her fingers in the hair at his nape. She would pinch his ear if it were not quite so pleasant.

"But the next summer, someone did. I had not paid her much attention, but, she seemed to take a fancy to me – I don't know why."

Rosamunda could not refrain from adding, "Oh, nor do I!"

Frodo looked back at her, a bit puzzled.

"Silly. How could she not? You are beautiful, Frodo. Do you really not know?"

Frodo ducked his head, nestling it onto her breast, obviously pleased. His hand ventured over to the other one, smoothing its rounded underside, then making little upward feathered strokes, all along it.

"So, she took a fancy to you, did she?" Rosamunda prompted, but Frodo was thinking.

Frodo's first adventure had been with the middle sister, the tallest, Anthea. They had kissed each other several times, which had been very nice. Then she had let Frodo touch her, under her skirts. And then she had touched him. Quite a lot. His fingers paused in remembrance.

"Well, did she?" Rosa prompted, smiling, but Frodo looked puzzled. "Did she fancy you?"

"Oh. Yes, she did," Frodo answered. "It was – exciting."

It had been extremely exciting, actually. Rather _too _exciting. Frodo had felt rather mortified and Anthea behaved as if she thought it very funny. But Frodo had been determined and putting shame aside, pursued her further. But after a few days, Anthea seemed to have lost all interest.

The eldest sister, Linnéa, however, became interested instead. But that was not until the next summer. Linnéa had seemed to know what they had been up to, Frodo and Anthea – which had given him a jolt. Frodo feared she'd tell her father, his Uncle Adelard. He would take a lash to any lad he caught poaching after one of his daughters – so everyone had said. But she wasn't going to tell. In fact, she said, she wanted him for herself! So she took him to a spot she knew, tucked well away from the Smials. They laid down there and she had pulled up her skirts, nearly all the way. This time, he had actually managed to get his breeches down, Frodo chuckled to himself.

Rosamunda waited for him to continue, intrigued by the chuckle. But, when Frodo started slowly running his hand up and down her side, then deepening the strokes, she believed she guessed his thoughts.

Frodo remembered the scene in his mind. They'd got as far rubbing against each other, skin to skin – and again – it had been too much. But _she_ had been disappointed this time, too! Linnéa agreed to meet him again, the next chance they got. They met as planned, and all was going well. . . .

As more pictures flooded Frodo's mind, his stroking faltered and stopped. His uncle must have seen them go off together – or had received word – and followed after. Frodo had been between Linnéa's knees, his breeches down around his own, just pushing up Linnéa's skirts, when his uncle suddenly arrived. That had been the end of that! His uncle's voice had filled them both with terror, banishing their hopes – as well as all of Frodo's ardour. His uncle had threatened to geld him, then and there, Baggins heir or not. Obedient – and shaken – Frodo stayed away for the remainder of the visit. The next year, tempers had cooled. But Linnéa, by then, had liked another.

". . . It was not happy, then, for you?" she asked at last, at the sight of Frodo's darkened face.

"It was at first . . . but we were caught."

She smoothed his cheek and kissed it, stroking the hair from the side of his face. Frodo turned to her again but paused, before he asked his own question.

"Rosa, did you never do this with anyone besides Odovacar?"

"No. Oh, there were lads who had kissed me – or tried to push their hands up under my skirts." Frodo's knowledgeable nod made her chuckle, "But I had not cared for any of them."

She did not see it, since the side of his face lodged against her breast, but Frodo's lips formed a small satisfied smile. He resumed his doodling.

"But when Odovacar kissed me," she continued, "_that_ was very different!"

"How, different? Because you loved him?"

"Well, no. For, in fact, I did not love Odovacar right away," Rosamunda explained. "But I loved his _kisses_ immediately!"

Frodo flashed her a look.

"But then, he had had a great deal of practice – before he began to court me," she added, smiling at the thought. Frodo turned about, raising himself upon one elbow.

"Shall I need a great deal more practice, do you think, Rosa?"

Rosamunda looked into the eyes that gazed at her so beseechingly, uncertain of the tone to take. She laughed, then smiled archly, "No, not a great deal, I should think!"

Frodo's eyes flared and sparked. He uttered feelingly, "What! You might have said, I should need it very much!" But the corners of his mouth quivered and gave him away.

Rosamunda threw head back head and laughed. How he loved to tease her!

But the sight of her gleaming teeth and the dark recess behind proved too much for Frodo. Indeed, he would commence his extra practice right away!

Rosamunda's abandon before his assault gave Frodo a highly gratifying sense of triumph. She was quite beset beneath his kisses! Frodo seized his opportunity and trailed his free hand beneath the coverlet and down between her rounded thighs. Encountering no resistance, his nimble fingers insinuated themselves here and there to great effect. Rosamunda sighed and curled into him like a rasher's end, sizzling in a pan. This made him feel extremely bold. But then she laughed, clapping the invading hand between her thighs, while drawing up her knees with an appreciative shiver.

Frodo was not dismayed. His arm might be imprisoned, but his fingers yet were free to continue their delicate but relentless foray, until he had won the secret way he sought.

But then suddenly he stopped.

Both were surprised to hear the sound of their panting breaths in the quiet. Rosamunda relaxed her knees, puzzled, and Frodo withdrew his hand. He turned an earnest face to hers, still fresh with all the marks of his desire – his colour high, his eyes brilliant and his lips stung to greater fullness.

She waited.

"Rosa . . ." he began, faltering. "You said I might ask you anything."

"I did," she answered as evenly as she might. Where were his thoughts going?

His expression seemed grave – but vulnerable. "What, Frodo?"

Frodo found his voice, but stammered his request.

"May I see you? – May I look at you?"

Rosamunda felt a little puzzled.

"But you have seen me, Frodo. You see me now!"

"Oh, yes, I have seen you, and I do see you," he breathed, gazing into her eyes. Then he turned away. "But – that is not what I mean."

He did not speak further, so she smiled inquisitively. He did not smile in return, seeing no comprehension in her face. He looked away, as though he were conjuring his answer. Turning back to her, Frodo's words tumbled out in stops and starts:

"I have seen you, but just – parts. The most _interesting_ parts – they are not very easy to see, are they, Rosa?"

Rosamunda held very still. _Ah._ The puzzle was cleared away. She heard the bedside candle gutter and go out. The moon's silver did double service.

"I should – I should very much like to look at you, Rosa, but _all_ of you."

Her lips maintained their even smile, and Frodo was encouraged to continue:

"May I, then, Rosa? – In the light?"

The countenance he lifted to Rosamunda bore a look of moving importunity. _Such a face!_ But Rosamunda really did feel quite squeamish. Odovacar had enjoyed looking at her, too, but even he had never made such a request!

Ah, well, she sighed to herself. She offered him a softer, almost maiden smile. Frodo took her silence as assent. She waited, trembling – though not from any chill.

_x x x_

Frodo rose from the bed and searching around, gathered all the candles of the house. He set them on a dressing table that stood along the nearest wall. He departed once more – she could hear him in the kitchen.

When Frodo returned, he held a lighted rush before him, shielding its flame with a hand held cupped before it. The sight of his face thus lit, elicited from Rosamunda a tiny gasp of wonder. She curled on her side, a pillow under her cheek, the better to gaze at him. Each wick caught and flared – echoing the flame that sparked and spread within her – their commingled radiance building to a steady blaze of gold. The near side of her lover's body was thus illuminated before her eyes, as undulations of highlights and shadows – every outward curve and inward dip delineated, glister-gleaming in the shining light.

The splendour of so much beauty smote her heart, bespoken in a catch of breath. Turning at the sound, Frodo felt his own heart thrill – to be looked upon with such unconcealed pleasure! His pleasure waxed further when he saw her eyes kindle and flicker as they slid down over the slope of his belly, to the parts springing from the dusky region below. He heard her sigh. The sound of that sigh stirred him to speech.

"Do you – you _do_ like to look at me, don't you, Rosa?" he asked.

Her answer seemed poured out from some heretofore unknown place. In fact, she felt quite intoxicated by the sight of him. "Oh, yes!" she confessed, sighing again. "Looking at you gives me great pleasure!"

At this, Frodo's smile illuminated his face even more than had the burning tapers. "Well, that is the pleasure I want, also!" Frodo said, as he waved the rush he held through the air, extinguishing it. Placing it on the table, he continued with greater animation: "You may see me – all of me," he said, glancing down at himself – "just by my standing here before you. But on your body, so much remains – _hidden_. I mayn't see you – there – unless you let me." He paused, but then asked her, "Rosa, will you let me?"

The sweet openness of his countenance removed any further possibility of a refusal. Like his, her eyes had become very dark. Feeling the blood rush up her neck and into the roots of her hair, Rosamunda gave assent.

_x x x_

Frodo slid the candles across the narrow table to the closest edge. Then he stepped silently across the planking to the bed, now silhouetted in the blazing candlelight behind him. He drew off the remainder of the bedclothes, which slithered and whispered onto the floor. Sitting beside her on the bed, Frodo gave Rosamunda a reassuring smile. Then, firmly, he took her golden legs and drew them apart. Climbing onto the bed between them, he settled himself onto his stomach, making a few small adjustments for his own comfort.

Frodo engaged Rosamunda's countenance once again and she beheld his face, framed by his tumble of coiling hair. The candle flames, reflected, leapt and glimmered in his eyes as he remained quite still, expectant. And then he smiled. Well, then. Rosamunda drew up her knees and let them fall to either side.

"Oh . . . !"

She watched his mouth form the word, itself so like a rose. He should have been named for a rose, not she! After another quick glance at her – with a very appreciative smile – he dropped his gaze to fill his eyes with what he so long had desired to see.

Propped on his elbows, Frodo lifted one hand and then the other, fingers tentative – but checked himself – engaging her eyes once again.

"May I . . . ?"

Blushing hotly, she managed to peep an answer – "Yes."

Then he turned all his attention to the sight before him. But Rosamunda watched his face, inclined between the lustrous pallor of the peaks of his hunched shoulders, for the sheer joy of beholding him.

Frodo's fingertips alighted and then carefully took and touched and tested, tenderly parting and drawing aside. A sigh from the pillows echoed his own, though his own sigh spoke his wonder. Frodo noticed something nestled there and indicating with a fingertip said, "What is this?"

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, when she jumped at his touch.

"No," she managed to breathe, "Yet, that is indeed a very sensitive spot. You might wet your fingers, first." Frodo did, slipping them into his mouth.

"Is that better?" He could tell that it was. But Rosamunda helped him make it better still, placing her fingers over his and showing him exactly where and which way and how fast. Ah,_ that_ way, he thought, eliciting a series of drawn-out gasps as she sighed appreciatively in between them, "Oh, Frodo . . . that's so _wonderful_!"

Frodo's sense of being the author of such keen pleasure filled him with puissant joy. What a sight she made in the blazing candlelight! – so completely open to his eyes and hands – her head tossed back upon the pillows, her loosened hair spilled across them everywhere, her lips parted as she drew in sharp breaths, exhaling again in sighs and soft whimpers, her whole brown-gold body covered in sheen, stretched and aquiver with tremors solicited by his mere touch.

When Frodo suddenly paused he heard her make a high little sound in her throat, almost plaintive.

He would resume, Frodo assured her – he wanted only to look – one more time.

He did. Looking again he thought: how mysterious it all seemed – like the inside on the outside – or like a secret just for him. She was so ruddy here, quite a different hue from any other place. Ruddy and glistening, almost like a wound. Yes, a wound, but beautiful. Impulsively he kissed the centre.

Well! That made a stir. Frodo did it again and elicited a series of shudders. Remembering the special place she had showed him, he next tried a tender kiss there. Better still! Encouraged by her reaction, he slipped his hands beneath her to hold her steady before he began in earnest. Frodo's experimental kisses became nibbles; the nibbles became deeper kisses – the kisses of his mouth – as he sampled the perimeter. She panted and sighed the more, but when he narrowed his focus, she cried out, "There! Yes, there!" Frodo complied. He could feel her muscles trembling and lifting his eyes he was amazed to see her head arched back, her hands shaking and twitching in the air. He accommodated his kisses, pausing to relish that one spot as fully as he might. Heavens!

"_That_! Please! More! _That_!" she gasped.

Frodo applied himself with ardour to his task. Her panting had become quite ragged until she was only able to utter shreds of his name. Then suddenly all of her movements stilled – except for a sort of quivering all over – as if she were held in a state of exquisite suspension. Not quite sure, Frodo continued another few moments until Rosamunda took one great sobbing breath, held it, then let it out all at once as if expiring – voice and body – in one great sigh.

Frodo did not pause to marvel for his own urgency had become very great. Pushing himself to his knees he hovered over her for just a moment before he sank himself deep into the centre of his desire, as far as he might go. This revived her immediately! Rosamunda drew him to her, furling her ankles around the backs of his legs and holding him there, close and fast. Her hands she could not keep still, shifting them from one place to another, his face, his arms, his waist, his breast, as if unable to choose only one part of him in the midst of her excitement.

Inside, Rosamunda felt very wet to him, much more so than before – and hot – almost on fire. Frodo could not believe it could have felt any more exciting, but it did. He felt himself enfolded – no – clasped, very silky and sweet, in pure sensation. But this time, he sensed a bit more control remaining to him and no longer feared immediate surrender. First he tried slow, deep thrusts – but this proved too dangerously exquisite – especially at the sound of the moans elicited by each long stroke. He found he could more safely take quick, shallow little dips – like sips – which caused her to angle herself differently under him, winding her arms around his waist and pulling him closer to feel it the better – all of which Frodo found equally gratifying.

Rosamunda's gasps now came like the cries of some little night creature in distress, sounds small and high. Her hands were falling away. At the sight of her spread out beneath him, her eyes desperate with desire, her fingers now shaking and trembling as she remained poised at the brink by such intense sensation, Frodo now knew what that meant.

"Frodo!" she gasped once, as he felt her body seize and throb around him with the violence of her pleasure. Frodo threw away restraint and plunged deeply a last few times with everything he had. Then he felt himself borne upon waves of undulating sweetness, waves beneath him and waves washing through him until they carried him gently onto the warm shingle that was Rosamunda's breast. Frodo lay there, panting in the ebb.

Rosamunda wrapped her arms about him, stroked his hair and sobbed into his dewy neck with gratitude and joy. "I had forgotten!" she cried.

Frodo held her face between his fingertips and kissed her tenderly. He noticed a remaining blotch of flour, just at her hair line. Stroking it away with his thumb, he whispered, "I want you never to forget me, Rosa!"

They lay like this for a time till their hearts had stilled and Frodo rolled off with a tremendous sigh. When Rosamunda turned to speak to him, she saw that he was already fast asleep.

_x x x_

_End of First Part._

_x x x_

_Notes on Departures from Canon_:

Rosamunda Bolger has been created from her name and dates in the family trees, but I changed her birth year it to 1345, for the sake of the projected story's long time frame. Likewise, he husband Odovacar is fashioned from a name in the Baggins trees. No dates are specified for him so I have given him ones of my own. He is indicated in the family trees as having attended the Farewell Party of 1401 but in this story he does not.

Furthermore, in this story the Bolgers are frequent guests at Brandy Hall in order that Merry and Fredegar and Frodo might plausibly have become friends. But in "A Conspiracy Unmasked" it is mentioned that Fredegar has never before been over the Brandywine River.


	8. The Rising of Bread

**THRESHOLD**

_Chapter 8_ -- "The Rising of Bread"

xxxxxxx

Just in case you are watching this story, this chapter is solidly NC-17 so it can't be posted here.

If you would like to read it, see it at the other two sites where it is posted:

xxx

_Frodo's Harem Fan Fiction Archives_

or

_Open Scrolls Archives_

xxx

Chapter 9 will not be so explicit and I will post that one here.

Sorry for the inconvenience -- I don't know how to make a link copy into this,

-- Mechtild


	9. A Delivery of Cherries

**THRESHOLD**

_Chapter 9_ – **_A Delivery of Cherries_**

_xxxxxxx_

Unfortunately, although there is less sexual content in the new chapter than there was in chapter 8 ("The Rising of Bread") it still is an NC-17.

If you would like to read it, please look in the other sites where _Threshold_ is posted:

_xxx_

_Frodo's Harem Fan Fiction Archives_

or

_Open Scrolls Archives_

_xxx_

Again, I apologize for the inconvenience -- Mechtild


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